


Melt Into, Melt Until

by notoska



Series: We Made Ourselves [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:32:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 79,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2050038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoska/pseuds/notoska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve looks up and holds his blown black eyes. “Tell me how you want to fuck me.”</p><p>Bucky’s mouth drops open a little and his eyes roll. “Slow,” he slurs, his body is rocking back and forth with Steve’s touch, “So slow. So slow that you beg.” Bucky lifts his head again. He pushes his forehead to Steve’s and his voice dips, “So slow you start fucking yourself on it. And deep—” Bucky moans, biting his lip, “So fucking deep. Spread you open so I can get deeper. Make you come so hard you beg for more before your cock’s gone soft.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take Things Slow

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is an exploration of intimacy post-Every Door Opens. (You can probably follow 85% of this fic without reading EDO, but I will be referencing it unforgivingly. So if you like heavily layered fics, this may be more rewarding if you read EDO first!) This fic will have a much looser narrative structure and be more ‘moment oriented’ than ‘story oriented’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack suggestion!
> 
> Dissolve Me by alt-J  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVrp7ZSiAM8

Steve reaches behind Bucky to fumble for the front door knob. Bucky seizes the opportunity to back himself up to the door and pull Steve flush to his chest. One hand behind his head, the other roaming down his back. Bucky’s kissing along his jaw, breathing heavy. Steve stumbles in his grip and his body weight pins Bucky to the door.

Bucky gasps a smile and one eyebrow cocks up. A low hum as he lets his tongue trail hot and wet from the hollow of Steve’s throat, curving around to the edge of his jaw. Steve is caught between laughing at their clumsiness and letting his head fall back, exposing his throat, and giving Bucky all the skin he wants.

He finally finds the knob, twists it, and pushes in. They fall backward, stumbling into Sam’s house. Bucky’s laughing, tripping, holding tight to Steve’s shirt collar, but they haven’t fallen. Even as a tangled mess, their balance is still better than it should be. Steve’s trying to steady him, hands on Bucky’s back, when he sees something whoosh toward the stairs.

His head snaps up just in time to see Sam’s socked feet sprinting up to the second floor as he calls down, louder than necessary, “Goodnight!”

Steve means to reply, apologize, thank him, something, anything, but Bucky’s got three fingertips on his jaw and he’s tilting Steve’s chin down to kiss him deeper, tongue reaching over his own, and Steve just groans, eyebrows knitting up. Too lost in the man in his arms to remember the world around them.

Happiness is just one swell in the ocean in your chest. _He’s staying._ Relief so deep you forget to breathe. _He wants you._ Lust so thick you forget every part of your body he’s not touching. _He’s ready._ Pride and hope and dedication. Anticipation and gratefulness and hunger and infatuation and optimism and euphoria. Too many to count them all when your mind is so fuzzy. 

Steve walks him over to the couch, Bucky’s hands on his ribs, exploring the muscles under his arms through his shirt. Steve sits and Bucky follows him down. Immediately crawling over him, straddling his lap. He sits back, hips on Steve’s thighs, and moves both hands to the hem of Steve’s shirt. Steve’s feeling loose, so far undone. He watches Bucky watch him as his hands slip under Steve’s shirt and his fingertips meet skin. Steve’s mouth falls slightly open and Bucky grins. Dark and pleased and roguish. _He’ll take you tonight if you let him._ He leans forward as his hands search higher, drifting over Steve’s stomach, up his chest. _He’ll give you rapture if you want it now._

Bucky kisses his temple and noses Steve’s head to the side with his own. He kisses lightly across the top of Steve’s ear and lets his lips drift down the sensitive outside curve. Bucky flicks his tongue into the hollow just behind his earlobe and Steve gasps. Bucky’s hands brace against the back of the couch and he grinds his hips forward, chasing the pressure of Steve’s cock against his own. They both shudder when he finds it. _Let him take you, let him take you._

Bucky opens his mouth and draws the lobe between his teeth. _We should slow down._ He bites down and tugs enough to make Steve groan. Then releases him, settles his lips close, and with the tip of his tongue begins to explore. _We have all the time in the world._ Feeling along each ridge and crease. _And getting him back is enough for one night._ He’s circling, tongue pressing harder, wetter as he traces the curves toward the center. _Stop him now, before he’s got his tongue deep in your ear and you forget how to speak._

“Buck—” Steve gasps. Bucky hums low and hungry in his ear and grinds his hips again. “Ah—” Steve’s mind blanks and he tries to stay afloat in the waves of pleasure, “Bucky—” This time he manages to get his hand on Bucky’s chest and push him back a bit.

Bucky sits back and— _fuck, maybe that wasn’t a good idea._ He looks incredible. Lips swollen, mouth parted, cheeks flushed, eyes lidded with pupils blown. His hair is tangled from your fingers and he’s smiling at whatever shows on your face. Steve stares at him for so long that Bucky starts to lean in again for another kiss.

“Buck—” Steve swallows, catches him when his lips are just above his own, “I want to take things slow.” He’s expecting a laugh, an incredulous huff, or at least a confused pause.

But Bucky just says, “Okay,” soft words over his lips, “Whatever you want.”

“Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah. Is kissing okay?” Bucky kisses the corner of his lips and just grazes the crease with the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah,” Steve’s voice breathless, “Kissing’s okay,”

“Good,” Bucky kisses the side of his nose. The top of his eyelid. The bottom of his chin. Then rests their foreheads together and stills.

“Buck—you feel so good,” Steve whispers. 

“So do you,” Bucky whispers back with a smile.

They soak in the silence for a minute. Just warm and close and one. Then Bucky rolls to his side, trailing his fingers over Steve’s shoulders. Steve curls to face him on the couch, “Should we bring your stuff back in?”

Bucky shakes his head, “No,” then his lips quirk and he adds, “I’ll just stay in your room tonight.”

Steve smiles wider, “Yeah, maybe if you go take a cold shower first.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker and he chuckles. His head settles deeper against the couch cushion and Steve is swept up in an overwhelming desire to kiss him. So he does. _Because now you can._ Harder and hungrier than he means to— _weightless possibility_ —then pulls away and stands before they can get tangled up again.

Two steps from the couch he realizes they never shut the front door. He walks over to close it and with his hand on the door, looks at Bucky’s truck out front. He pauses and calls back into the house, “You were going to take your plants?” He walks back toward the couch, “Not even one plant left in the kitchen for me to remember you by?” Steve’s wearing a teasing smile but Bucky’s face is serious. Like he’s just remembered how they got here. How they’d jumped and flailed wild in the air for a terrifying moment before finding each others’ arms. How dark the world was just an hour ago. 

Steve reaches for him, “Hey,” he smiles warmly, _you’re here now Buck, I’ve got you,_ “let’s go to bed.” Bucky takes his hand and stands. He follows Steve up the stairs, everything feeling a bit like a dream, and in the upstairs hall he touches Steve’s shoulder. Steve turns and Bucky gently pins him. Both hands on the wall, on either side of his head. 

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too,” his eyes are dark and quiet, “I want you to know. I think I fell in love with you the first time we met at the diner. This is me now, no matter what I was before, and I want to do this right,” Bucky’s gaze is sharp with conviction, “I don’t know how I felt before the war. But if that guy was anything like me, then he loved you too.

“I know,” Steve caresses the side his face with his palm and Bucky turns his head to kiss it.

Bucky pushes back and lets Steve take his hand. He leads them toward his bedroom. _Now you never have to be apart._ Spend every second together and need no excuses. _Hold him and smile._ Now you know the taste of his lips and there’s no going back. His hand is warm and firm in yours and nothing has ever felt as right as this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam was afraid of them walking in on him but it was them that ‘walked in on’ him in the end!! Oh ho ho!! Parallels and inversions!


	2. Blinking in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve lets his hand slip from the table top to Bucky’s knee like a question. Bucky smiles in reply, bright enough to reassure him and small enough to say— you don’t have to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack suggestion!  
> Alive by OVERWERK  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GgBOOis6Vs
> 
> If you haven’t read Every Door Opens, there’s a link in the text to a photo of Bucky’s truck’s front seat. An important visual!!

Morning comes, like he always knew it would, and finds you in his arms. 

Bucky wakes; consciousness rising from the inside out. He opens his eyes. Bright bedroom, sun-warmed bed. 

First, he realizes that it is much later than when he usually wakes up. Awareness stretches down his legs, curls around his arms and realization sends a warm sweep through his stomach. They’re curled together on top of Steve’s bed. Clothes on, covers slightly rumpled around them. Bucky’s stretched out on his back and Steve is pressed against him, laying on his side, heads resting close on a shared pillow.

Steve’s arm is across his stomach and there’s something new in the way his fingers are curled under Bucky’s ribs. _Relief? Disbelief? Untempered possessiveness? Or maybe he’s just trying to make sure his shadow doesn’t try to slip away, run back to fight without him._

Steve shifts and old habits die hard; Bucky slows his breathing and closes his eyes. They’re both still while Steve’s breathing grows more alert, shallower, a bit quicker. His head shifts again and Bucky can almost hear his eyes opening.

Steve’s hand, now steady with consciousness, curls further around Bucky’s ribs and pulls. Bucky comes easily, pliable with pretend sleep. Steve pulls him in until his nose is in Bucky’s hair, then slips his thigh over Bucky’s and hums a quiet, content sound.

His breath is warm on Bucky’s neck and part of Bucky is stunned that he’s here, that Steve’s here. It’s all so unexpected that he just wants to lay still and wait to see how this will go. But another part of him, the one that reclaims and reclaims his right to feel at home from his anxious mind, whispers to him— _What are you waiting for? You remember last night, everything that was said. You’re here so do this the way you want to. Open your eyes and kiss him. If you’re going to live with your heart on your sleeve, then greet the day together and find a new normal._

But before Bucky can sort out his competing instincts, Steve speaks, warm whisper, “Hm, such a heavy sleeper.” And the corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up just enough to give him away.

Bucky opens his eyes and turns his head toward Steve. Familiarity, the glow of reliving something remembered, strikes suddenly. It’s an unfamiliar feeling; Bucky has memories but they aren’t so well settled inside that he can _feel_ them. More like film clips he can replay behind his eyes. But this moment _feels_ familiar. His eyes flit over Steve’s face and his mind stitches in snippets from decades ago. _Their young faces glowing in ambient light—they were under a sheet—a fort—in Bucky’s living room—bright eyes and irrepressible smiles—playing, pretending, some game, some story they were writing and living in real time._ That’s it. The thrill of being alone together. In a world they created. Making fantasy your reality by treating it as such. Hushed voices, privacy, closeness. Nervous ripple of anticipation through your stomach; do what you want.

Bucky smiles and Steve smiles back, eyes sparkling. He brings his head even closer, so their foreheads are resting together, noses just touching. Bucky’s eyes drift. There’s a chain around Steve’s neck and through the gaping collar of his shirt, he can see two dog tags resting against his skin. Doesn’t need to see the name to know— _He’s always slept with you against his chest._ Stomach drops, heart clenches. Bucky swiftly pulls back so he can see Steve’s eyes. They’ve gone a bit wide at the sudden movement, but quickly calm to tranquil blue.  

Steve moves his hand to Bucky’s temple and strokes a soft line, three fingertips trailing, down to his chin and says, voice sleepy and warm and reassuring, “hey.”

Bucky takes Steve’s hand in his own and presses his palm to his face. Hold tight to anchor yourself in the world under this blanket fort; write the story and live it too. He breathes for a beat before answering, echoing Steve’s tone— _this is normal now, breathe, this is normal_ —“hey.”

 

* * *

 

The trees outside Steve’s window swim softly side to side in the late summer breeze, casting beautiful, textured shadows on the opposite wall. They lay in bed for far too long, touching and breathing and watching the sunbeams crawl down the wall toward the carpet as the sun rises.

Living as one half of a rubber band, stretched from its other side by expectation and worry and doubt, tires you so deeply that when you finally snap together, laying loose in the same bed, you can’t bring yourself to move. When your heart finds its resting place, no more than arm’s reach from his, your body uncoils on the sheets and you think of nothing. 

Time passes and Bucky exists. Until a short buzz from Steve’s phone breaks the easy silence. Bucky reaches for the nightstand and swipes Steve’s phone onto the bed with two fingertips. He flicks the phone onto his stomach and Steve fumbles it in his fingers, unlocking the screen to see a message from Sam. It’s just a list of Craigslist URLs. Steve opens the first one. A one bedroom apartment downtown. Available immediately.

Bucky snorts a little laugh and after a pause Steve laughs too. He drops the phone and leans in, nose pushing into Bucky’s hair, smiling lips just brushing Bucky’s ear and— _oh_. The sudden shock of pleasure is too powerful for such a small touch. Bucky bites his lip to stifle a moan.

Hold still until Steve rolls away, shuffling on the carpet, searching for his laptop. He finds it and climbs back into bed, resting right next to Bucky with his head against the headboard. Steve pulls up apartment listings and Bucky curls around him. Shoulder against the headboard so he’s watching Steve’s profile. He leans forward, a few tentative kisses on Steve’s cheek, his jaw, his neck. He hears Steve’s fingers still on the keyboard and murmurs into the hollow of Steve’s collarbone, “Don’t let me distract you,” voice low, rumbling in his throat.

Steve makes some unintelligible sound and swallows. Bucky waits until he goes back to clicking and scrolling before he continues his slow kisses. Steve opens tab after tab, everything Sam sent and dozens more listings, while Bucky learns every inch of the skin between Steve’s ear and shoulder with his lips. 

It’s easier like this. Much easier when Bucky’s just laying close, breathing him in, like they’ve done dozens, if not hundreds, of times before. He doesn’t have to watch the fragile spill of intimacy in Steve’s eyes that reminds him exactly what he means to Steve. No triggers to get his worried mind spinning, feeling like an impostor here. Fight yourself because that’s a battle worth winning; but remember to rest. Sometimes, it’s okay to just close your eyes and lean on him. Forget yourself for a while.

“Okay, Buck,” Steve’s voice is rough. He clears his throat and Bucky turns his head. Chin resting on Steve’s shoulder, top of his head tipped against Steve’s cheek. He offers nearly instant critiques of each apartment, “No—Too small—no—no—not enough windows—no—too many hallways,” Steve closes each tab as soon as Bucky dismisses it, “no basement apartments—no—no—ceilings too low—no—too big—no places with carpet.” 

Steve pauses and pushes his head gently against Bucky’s, “Why no carpet?” His voice is soft and fond and amused and something Bucky doesn’t have a name for.

“It’s hard to clean.”

Steve breathes out a laugh, “How would you know?”

Bucky shifts, pushing on Steve’s chest with his hand to raise his head and meet Steve’s eyes, “The house we live in is mostly carpeted.”

Steve’s eyes are glittering, “And you’ve cleaned it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky searches his face for a second, “What? Have you not?” Steve is laughing and Bucky pushes up further so they’re face to face, “Steve. Have you never cleaned the carpet in here?”

Steve laughs harder, too hard to reply, grinning so wide his eyes are squeezed shut. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, giggling through it, and can’t quite stop laughing. Bucky shakes his head, “Yeah, okay. Definitely no carpet then.” And Steve dissolves into laughter all over again.

Bucky lays back down and lets the tail end of Steve’s laughter shake his head on Steve’s shoulder. He starts flicking through the tabs and closing them as soon as he finds a flaw. “Wait, wait—” Steve swallows and settles, “Tell me what you don’t like about them.”

Bucky withdraws his hand from the trackpad and lets his arm rest on Steve’s chest. Easy, close, possessive. Palm flat against his pec like you can touch him whenever and wherever you want to. Steve’s fingers weave into Bucky’s hair and he presses Bucky’s head to his neck, murmuring into his hair, “I like to know.”

They click through the rest of the list together. Bucky lets his lips rest against Steve’s skin, eyes sideways to see the screen, and speaks each judgment, hot and muffled, to Steve’s throat. Only three apartments are deemed “maybes.” Steve shuts the laptop as soon as they reach the end of the list and shoves it down the bed.

Bucky grins, readjusting now that his pillow has moved away, watching Steve’s movements quicken, “Hey you should probably call those realtors,” teasing him like you’ve been doing it your whole life, “Nice places go fast.”

Steve abandons the computer and starts crawling back up Bucky’s reclining form on his hands and knees, one leg between Bucky’s thighs. His arms are bent so his face drifts just inches above Bucky’s body, “Yeah, I’m gonna do that—,” his voice is miles away and his eyes are dark. Climbing up and up, hovering over Bucky’s hips, his stomach, his chest. Bucky feels a rush of goosebumps down his legs. Steve makes it all the way up to Bucky’s face and pauses, tension stretches, faces so close, expectation blooms in Bucky’s stomach. Steve leans even closer and mumbles, “later,” just before kissing Bucky hard into the headboard. 

Bucky does nothing to stifle the moan that leaps from him as soon as Steve’s lips are on his again. _Fuck, that feels amazing._ Is that all it takes? His lips on yours to make up your mind? Maybe Steve’s known that all along. Maybe that’s why he pulled away from every one of your advances. Distantly, Bucky wonders who he has kissed before. Who Steve has kissed before. _Whether we’ve ever— kissed—_ thoughts jerk back to the present, tied to Steve’s hand sliding up his thigh.

What was this body made for again? Was it slurring his name while he kisses wet down your neck? Must have been. Must have been, because nothing has ever captured you so completely. Steve’s thumb is swiping over his left bicep and he’s nudging his knee against Bucky’s thigh to coax his legs a little wider. Bucky’s just liquid on the mattress. Only his hands can remember how they ought to work, clutching at the back of Steve’s neck. Kiss him, pull him closer, kiss him again—

You’ve already let the morning drift by, what’s another couple of hours in bed with him?

 

* * *

 

Things are a bit different outside Steve’s bedroom. When they finally shuffle downstairs for a very late lunch, the house is empty. Steve makes grilled cheese sandwiches and Bucky cuts two pears into slices. They move around each other, too aware of their proximity, and say very little. 

Steve grills a sandwich in a pan with a weight on top. He turns and leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. Bucky finishes slicing the pears, sweeps the cores and stems into the trash, and turns to face Steve while licking a drip of pear juice from his thumb.

Steve’s gaze falls as soon as their eyes meet. The moment catches and stretches because they were kissing, breathing heavy with unguarded eyes, just a few minutes ago. But now, just a few more feet between you, the world rushes in again. Steve’s looking at the floor, unsure because you both wiped your slate clean last night. 

You fell into his orbit the moment you came home to him, and you’ve been pressing yourself to the glass wall of your hesitation for months. You chose words as your sledgehammer; that was wise, but now your boundaries are just shards on the floor.

The whoosh of air into a vacuum, hair tangling in front of your eyes. Your skin has never felt so alive and you have no idea what normal is now. How do you touch when you’re not kissing? And how often? Can you growl your hunger at each other? How tenderly can you hold him? And if you want to pin him to the counter and suck his lower lip until the sandwich burns and fills the house with smoke, would he let you? And if you wake up shaking, cobwebs over your eyes, and tell him your weary, wary mind is screaming at you to run, will it shake him too? If you want to push him to the floor, shuck his shirt and yours, and just lay on his chest, skin to skin, how do you know if he wants that, too?

At your most broken you’ve said you’d die for him and your actions have spoken even louder than those words. _How much more can you say? Should you say?_

Seeing Steve hesitate is all it takes. Bucky’s stubborn streak flares and he muffles his own quiet questions. _Show him you’re here for this._ Answer every question he doesn’t know how to ask. Pay him back for every patience when it was you who was blinking at the tile.

He walks up to Steve and rests a hand on the counter’s edge to ease himself against Steve’s frame. Hip to hip, stomachs flush, he can feel Steve’s breathing catch and hopes that his touch will always have that effect. Bucky holds his eyes and runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. When he reaches the nape of his neck he lifts his hand back to Steve’s forehead and does it again. Soft strokes, straight lines. Bucky does it again and again. Until Steve stops watching him and just feels, eyelids drifting. _We can be close, as close as you want._ Bucky slows his movements, letting his fingertips search gently over Steve’s scalp. _See, easy as it’s always been._

Live out your own contradiction. You are eager to smother your worries with his lips but you are stronger for him than you are for yourself. When he needs you: stand still and leave no doubt. 

Bucky lets him go before the sandwich starts to burn. Neither of you expect hesitation to vanish, but it’s comforting to know you have a path through its suffocating grip. 

They eat and Sam doesn’t reappear. Just sitting at the kitchen table with faces that say “now what?” and minds that spin with a thousand whats. Bucky tries to think of something to do that would keep them close but his mind, or maybe his cock, just supplies soft places—bed, couch, truck seat—where he could push himself against Steve, chase pleasure, and groan in his ear.

But hours of hungry kissing have left Bucky pretty undone and asking for more feels like pushing Steve’s limits. Steve wants to take things slow and Bucky’s not exactly sure what that means. 

Steve lets his hand slip from the table top to Bucky’s knee like a question. Bucky smiles in reply, bright enough to reassure him and small enough to say— _you don’t have to ask._ Steve’s eyes are spilling again, unfiltered emotion from beautiful blue. It isn’t all about sex. You want more than his body and he wants his fingers to tell you about the liquid in his chest when he looks at you. 

So what are you taking slow, exactly? And what is sex, anyway? And what is between here and sex? Your body wants. And you’ve come to know pleasure pretty well. Particularly well since you were pressed to the hood of a truck with your legs splayed. But it’s easier to let that want show in your eyes than figure out exactly what to do about it. 

Everything blurs and tips. They haven’t just added kissing to their repertoire of touches. Giving in to the want has changed everything, wrapped every closeness up in the feelings that you buried the deepest. It’s pulled you inside out. Ripped the cloak off your intentions and left you blinking in the sun.

Yeah, you want him, you slurred that in his ear this morning when he was sucking a bruise under your jaw. But what do you want, exactly? What do you want to do to him? Looking into his lust-blown eyes has you dreaming up ways to get him on his back, visions that make your cock twitch, but then what? 

Bucky understands the mechanics of sex, but hasn’t really tied them to the lust that floods him. He just wants Steve’s touch, everywhere, all at once, and what comes between that and orgasm is a pleasant, hazy unknown. How would you move with him? And what about giving him pleasure? Would you know how to make him come if he gave you the chance?

Bucky feels like he’s dropped into the world for the first time again. Another piece you didn’t realize you were missing. So clear a space, clean slate, and start over. Try everything. 

They finally bring in Bucky’s things from his truck, piling them on the floor of his bedroom since it’s clear he won’t be sleeping there. Steve finally calls the realtors. They eventually think of something to watch and they end up on the couch. To Bucky’s cock’s credit, it’s Steve that pulls the thread that gets them unraveling into each other again. Steve is laying on his side with his back pressed to the back of the couch. His long legs are bent at the hip and his feet are propped up on the coffee table. Bucky’s slouching in the crook of the L Steve’s body makes, one arm resting along Steve’s thigh. Bucky has no idea what they’re watching because he can feel Steve’s stomach rising and falling against his back and it takes every ounce of his concentration to keep his hands still.

But Steve’s fingertips are suddenly on his hip, where his shirt is rumpled up, revealing skin.

“What’s this?” His index finger is tracing a faint white line that runs over Bucky’s hip bone and down into his trousers. A scar from another lifetime.

“I don’t remember,” and for some reason, maybe it’s the way Steve is wrapped around him, or maybe it’s his tender touch, Bucky doesn’t jump. His heart doesn’t sink at the reminder. He doesn’t remember and that’s fine.

Steve pushes up on his elbow and leans down to press a kiss to the scar. That’s new and Bucky’s heart kicks. The first kiss that isn’t safely above someone’s shirt collar, or a chaste press of lips to a palm. It’s suggestive and sweet and Bucky immediately loses his grip on his own leash. His hand slips around to the back of Steve’s thigh and pulls it closer like he’s been thinking about doing that since they sat down. Not two minutes pass before Steve is slouched back into the couch cushion, knees falling open, and Bucky is in his lap. 

Kissing fiercely, lips already swollen and sensitive from earlier. Bodies so tuned to each other that they were aroused even before the friction of Bucky’s thighs against Steve’s hips. Too hungry to do anything about the sounds slipping from their lips.

Bucky’s only had a couple of hours to think about what might come after kissing but he’s already got a few ideas. He holds Steve’s jaw in one hand and finds new ways to grind his cock against Steve’s, watching Steve’s eyelids flutter, mouth drop open. 

The sun has set and the flickering television is their only light. They push and pull and let fingers explore. Steve is more measured but the dig of his fingers into Bucky’s hips and his desperate little gasps when Bucky is smirking, grinding pressure between them, tells him that Steve wants it just as badly. When you’re this far gone, your body knows what to do and you think nothing of what it is suggesting on your behalf.

They kiss until every breath is a breathy groan. Until Steve is hot and melted and flushed and Bucky can’t stop pulling back to look at his face in the dim light. When his lips are trailing over Steve’s jaw for what must be the fortieth time today, Steve swallows. And swallows again. Then says, “okay.”

Bucky smiles against his skin, “Bed time?”

Steve laughs and his voice is gravelly, “Yeah.”

Bucky shifts to the side, rolling off Steve just like he did about 24 hours ago. Bucky licks his lips and Steve’s eyes catch.

“But. Cold shower. Seriously.” Steve pulls his eyes up to meet Bucky’s.

Bucky laughs and shakes his head but doesn’t argue. He pads up the stairs and strips in the bathroom. He turns the water on hot and lets the room fill with steam. Because cold water might make his blood run a little cooler, but it won’t stop him from pinning Steve as soon as he walks into the bedroom and spiraling into sloppy kisses all over again. So Bucky steps under the hot stream, takes his heavy cock in hand, too sensitive from so much pressure with no relief, and comes at the thought of Steve’s hands on his hips.

 

* * *

 

There are so many firsts in those first few days. For every one that Bucky expected, there were at least ten he never saw coming. Each one left him feeling exposed and startled, like going outside without a coat during a Siberian winter. A shudder, a pause, a rush of questions. _Is this right? What should I do? How should I feel?_ But under the shock of winter air on uncovered skin, his mind filed away careful memories. Of moments worth remembering; snapshots from the life he'd chosen.

You ought to be proud of yourself for knowing that even the rocky firsts are worth remembering. For not letting those cold shocks shake you. For stilling when your mind is screaming at you to flee. For facing the anxiety of being alive and weighing every jolt of panic against the hours of calm. 

There was the first time you propped your feet up on his leg at the kitchen table just to see what he’d do (a fond smile and a hand over your ankles). The first time he kissed your forehead in passing, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The first time you held his hand, gathering it in yours carefully, stretching your fingers to lace them between his, feeling ridiculous. 

And then there was the first time his wandering hands found a weapon under your clothes. 

They’d just gotten home from the grocery store, pushed open the front door and stepped over the threshold. Bucky stilled for a second to listen for Sam, and hearing an empty house, dropped the groceries on the floor and grabbed the hem of Steve’s shirt. Bucky pulled him to the couch, Steve stumbling briefly before following his lead, and by the time Bucky was shoving him to the seat, Steve already had a hand around his waist to pull Bucky down with him. 

Sinking back together again, subtle friction that would grow hotter and harder the longer they stayed there. Steve’s hands were circling around the back of Bucky’s trousers to try to pull him forward, further into his lap. His fingers stopped dead on the pistol handle, just jutting out the top of his pants. 

Bucky jolted, leaning back, looking down, swallowing the words as they left his lips, “sorry, I— I’m sorry.” He shook his head. There were always guns, knives, even small grenades living under his clothes when they left the house; but he’d been so careful to remove them as soon as they got home. Not this time. Too eager to pin him, to taste him. It was just a matter of time before you slipped up.

Steve’s hand landed soft on Bucky’s jaw, pulled up until their eyes met, “Don’t be.” He wasn’t smiling but his eyes were easy, face calm. Steve held his gaze and let the silence say— _Don’t apologize for anything. Don’t hide. You don’t have to show me everything but I want to see it all._

Bucky blinked down at Steve’s chest, waiting for the anxious knot in his stomach to loosen.

“Besides,” Steve swallowed and raised his eyebrows, “If someone—” he shrugged and gestured behind Bucky’s back, “comes up on your six,” his faux-serious face is already cracking into a smile, “I’ll know where to reach.”

Bucky scrunched up his nose, shook his head, and huffed a laugh, “That’s your plan?” a teasing smile, “And they call you a master tactician—”

Steve cut him off with a kiss. Leaning forward and up to reach him. He leaned them both back into the cushions and eased the gun from Bucky’s waistband, dropped it next to them on the couch. Bucky pulled a switchblade from the top of his left trouser leg seam and let it clatter on top of the gun. He produced two more knives and a gun from a holster around his ankle.

They kissed and moved together, finding stability in this constant: the heady pleasure of getting lost in each other. Kissed for too long, in fact. Lost track of time and ignored buzzing phones until the front door knob was clicking and they sprang apart less than a second before Sam came through the doorway.

Bucky tried to roll off Steve but had to throw himself to the far end of the couch to avoid the pile of weapons on the seat. Sam paused in the doorway, eyeing the two of them sitting on opposite ends of the sofa. A smile cocked in the corner of his lips, “Just hanging out on the couch, huh?”

Bucky looked at Steve and Steve blushed at his knees.

Sam’s eyes fell to the tangle of muzzles and blades on the couch and his eyebrows knit, “I was gonna joke about you two getting right to the kinky shit—” he shook his head and walked toward the kitchen, “but it’s too real.”

Bucky and Steve exchanged a questioning look.

“Remind me when you’re moving out again?” Sam’s voice pitched to carry from the kitchen.

Steve replied, “Tues—”

“That’s right, not soon enough. I remember now,” Sam interrupted him, voice light.

Steve’s face settled somewhere between a smile and grimace, “Sorry Sam.”

“No, it’s all good. I just wanted to mark it on my calendar so I could countdown the days, Christmas style.”

 

* * *

 

Some firsts opened doors. Raised more questions than they answered. Like the first time you gave yourself up to him.

Bucky had already found countless ways to get tangled with Steve, and as they rolled in the bed or melted on the couch, patterns emerged. Bucky was almost always on top, setting the pace. And even when Steve had him pinned, he was grabbing, pulling, pushing. Still in control.

Bucky had looked down at Steve after kissing him to pieces and seen his glassy, dark eyes. The way his arms were slow to lift and every ounce of energy seemed to be concentrated in his heaving chest. He looked like he couldn’t move and often made no attempt to. Curiosity grew into determination and Bucky resolved to try doing what Steve did: just laying back and letting it happen.

He made a few attempts when they were in bed or standing in the kitchen. Tried dropping his hands at his sides and letting Steve take over, but quickly got jumpy, got anxious, got itchy and abandoned it. He didn’t tell Steve what he was doing, or trying to do. It felt too vulnerable, too vague. How would he put words to it? _I feel like I need to be in control when we’re kissing and I’m trying and failing to let you drive. Some part of me is still unsure about this softness, this pleasure. I don’t know if I’m meant for it and I— I guess I can quiet those thoughts when I’m the one pulling us along. But I don’t want to escape. I just want to be here with you and be okay with it and—_ No, you couldn’t say that. That’s much too raw.

It frustrated Bucky, and without that prickling at the back of his neck, he probably wouldn’t have pushed it. Because even in the thick of it, when his heart was kicking and chest tightening, he could tell the panic wasn’t connected to anything. No logic, no real reason to feel this way, just emotion bubbling up of its own accord. Just an echo of past worries rippling through his body again. And the idea of being subject to his body’s illogical whims made him feel weak. So he tried fighting down the panic, swallowing the rising dread that hissed— _not you, not him, not like this._ And he could hold it down for a while, all his body weight thrown against the door to his mind’s darkest depths. But as soon as he relaxed his grip it all flared up again. 

So push yourself and push yourself. Slide your hands against this wall until you find a crack and tear it down. Or if it is too solid, find a way around the defenses you built. 

Bucky invented a reason to get them out of town. He took Steve along on an errand to a motorbike part supplier that was two hours west of home. On the way back, he took the backroads and eventually found what he was looking for. A gravel pull off, behind some trees, where they’d have some privacy.

He pulled over and parked the car. It wasn’t until he clicked on the stereo that Steve asked, “What are we doing?” There was a breathless note in his voice that said he didn’t really care as long as it was going the way he hoped it was going.

Bucky said nothing, started [a song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GgBOOis6Vs), turned the volume up so loud the bass vibrated the seats, and slouched back against his door, turning toward Steve. He hitched up one knee and let his boot rest [on the seat](http://image.customclassictrucks.com/f/featuredvehicles/1004cct_1950_chevy_pickup_truck/27108671/1004cct_02_o%2B1950_chevy_pickup_truck%2Brestored_interior.jpg) so his lap was open for Steve when he extended his hands and flicked his fingertips back toward himself— _come here._

Steve came immediately, shifting and crawling until he was between Bucky’s legs, kneeling on the truck seat, hands braced against the door on either side of Bucky’s shoulders, leaning in close to his face. Bucky was expecting to be pinned with a kiss, but Steve paused instead. The music was deafening but Steve didn't raise his voice, just leaned closer to ask, “What do you want me to do?”

Bucky hesitated. Clearly, Steve knew there was something different here. He was wondering what you were doing, what you wanted, why you drove so far away from home to get it. 

Bucky placed one arm on the seat back and the other along the ledge next to the window. He watched Steve’s eyes and hoped he understood the intent behind his actions. Still, Steve was waiting for an answer. _You’ll have to give more than that._

Bucky felt himself blush before the request even leave his lips, say it in as few words as you can, “Do whatever you want with me.”

His blush only deepened at Steve’s reaction. How he froze, then exhaled in a rush and surged into Bucky, nuzzling the side of his head, down his neck. Bucky could tell Steve was making noise by the way his lips and throat were vibrating, but couldn’t hear anything over the music.

And that was the appeal of trying this somewhere he couldn’t hear himself think. Just a haze of sounds, loud and fast, so he couldn’t hear his breathing hitch, couldn’t hear Steve’s tenderness. Bucky closed his eyes so he couldn’t watch Steve’s shoulders bunch, arms flex as he settled closer, breathing hot over the skin under Bucky’s ear. Just touch. Just one thing at a time. And in this moment there was nothing but Steve’s lips on his neck, Steve’s knees pushed up against the backs of his thighs, Steve’s arms grazing his shoulders.

 _Breathe. Just let him touch._ It’s not long before that familiar itch was branching down his arms, arcing down his legs— _move, move, fingers in his hair to pull him in, hips up to find friction, lips on his ear._ Bucky drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. He drew another and let the exhale settle his arms, each muscle resting lax. He drew another and let the breath flow out through his legs. His muscles gave in, going liquid on command. Steve was kissing lower and lower, pulling his shirt collar aside to mouth at the muscles at the back of his neck. Arousal ignited itself and flooded through his body, rushing through his resting limbs unimpeded.

Bucky moaned, he felt the sound leave him even if he couldn’t hear it. Steve must have felt it too because his movements picked up a demanding edge. He lifted his head to kiss Bucky flush on the mouth and brought his hands to Bucky’s waist. Bucky’s arms twitched at the shock of pleasure from a simple kiss. He let Steve push his head back against the window and kept his breathing slow, coaxing and reminding his muscles to rest. Swimming in the rising tide of an ecstasy so strong, so consuming, it was almost nauseating. His body kept sending up flares, little electrical signals that sparked down his inner thighs, the backs of his arms. Trying to reconcile this liquid body with the urgency of pleasure. 

Steve’s hands were under his shirt, searching, exploring with light fingertips. Bucky broke the kiss just long enough to curse under his breath and draw another long inhale. Steve followed the whisper of breath over his lips, kissing Bucky harder, deeper. Steve pulled back to kiss him and quickly pulled back to kiss him again. Kiss after kiss that was nothing more than a fast, hot, wet press of lips. This was new, not like they’d kissed before, and the way Steve chased the rhythm had Bucky’s head spinning, loose on his neck.

Suddenly, Steve’s hand was gripping his knee with more force than Steve had ever used with him, fingertips digging in. He slid it slowly up Bucky’s thigh without loosening his grip. Bucky jolted, moaning surprised and disbelieving into Steve’s mouth. His arms jumped and it took him a moment to focus enough to reanchor them. Steve hand had stopped just inches in front of where Bucky’s trousers creased at the hip. He kept his hold tight and swiped his thumb back and forth along Bucky’s inner thigh. Bucky tried to draw another deep breath but Steve’s touch was sending flames licking up his spine and his mind was wrapped up in the shrinking space between Steve’s hand and his swelling cock. Steve pivoted his hand and let his thumb run up Bucky’s trouser seam until it met a crease, then he released his hold and trailed teasing fingers up the very edge of Bucky’s balls, the side of his cock, straining against the fabric. Bucky groaned helplessly and arched back against the door. His hands now clenched fiercely in their resting spots to still themselves.

Steve was leaning on him again, pressing their foreheads together while his fingers teased around Bucky’s waistband, fingers dipping just below the trouser fabric, like he was thinking about unzipping them. Bucky writhed, so far gone his stomach was spasming with each new spark of pleasure. Abruptly, Steve gripped the waistband, fingers curling inside against Bucky’s stomach, and pulled down hard. Bucky’s eyes snapped open as Steve slid his slack, pleasure-wrecked body toward him until Bucky’s back was flat against the seat. Steve swooped in— _Jesus Christ, his face_ —blown pupils, mouth open, looking so hungry it was nearly predatory, resolve shattered, and kissed Bucky with abandon. Wet and wanting and his hands were still tucked just inside Bucky’s trousers—

But Bucky’s breath had started hitching in his chest. He was more turned on than he’d ever been but unease had found a foothold and with his back on the seat his arms were laying like loose ropes in a mess above his head. Feeling exposed, Bucky drew a deep breath but he could already feel the clench in his stomach. There was something about Steve’s weight pinning him down, or the way his leg was fully bent up against the passenger-side door, or the way his knee was trapped between the gearshift and the seat. 

Bucky felt alarm rising, stomach dropping, and there was only one way out of that pit—“Steve,” Bucky turned his head to the side, breaking the kiss, couldn’t look him in the eye to say, “I need to sit up.”

You filed away this memory, too: the first time you asked him to stop.

Steve pulled back immediately, hands slipping out of Bucky’s pants. Bucky sat up on his elbows and carefully pulled his legs out from either side of Steve’s hips, then tipped back up to sitting. He slouched, swallowed, stared out the windshield and tried to calm down. He turned the music down low and felt a swell of guilt at the sound of his and Steve’s breathing, still ragged. 

Steve brushed his fingers against the back of Bucky’s neck and murmured, “Thank you.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and looked out the driver’s side window.

Bucky felt him leaning closer and he was already berating himself for still feeling on edge when Steve just pressed a soft kiss under his ear. He paused, soft breaths on Bucky’s neck, before adding, “That was amazing.”

Bucky stilled. He wanted to tell Steve how good it felt, how he wants to sink right back into it the second his heart stops racing, how he wants Steve to touch him like that until he can’t take it anymore. But anxiety had already wrapped its wiry hand around his throat and there was nothing to do but wait it out.

“Let’s do that again sometime,” Steve grazed Bucky’s ear with the tip of his nose, “I won’t—”

Bucky shook his head to cut him off and found his voice, “Let’s do that again sometime.” He swept his hand in a short line with a hard stop to signal— _that’s all._

Steve nuzzled into Bucky’s ear and hummed, pleased. He kissed Bucky’s temple and whispered, “Okay.”

They drove home with the stereo on, filling the silence and giving Bucky some space to snip doubt’s dark ties through his mind. It was frightening. _That’s fine. You can be afraid._ He was chasing the shake in your hands, looking for ways to pick you apart, listening to your body’s wordless cues to get you closer. That’s vulnerable. Surrender, in a way, because all you have to do is sit still. Let him see you, past you, in you, without filter. Not easy, but it felt unbelievably good and seeing that look on his face felt even better.

You asked him to stop and he did. He even kissed your neck afterwards. _So it’s fine._ You’re fine.

 

* * *

 

The line between kissing and not kissing continues to blur. They brush against each other at every opportunity and Steve starts planting soft kisses whenever some part of Bucky’s skin passes within reach.

Bucky is reaching for something on an upper cabinet shelf when Steve catches his arm. His fingers close around Bucky’s metal wrist and pull it down to his face. He kisses across the palm and tips his hand back gently to kiss down metal skin inside his wrist. His eyes are on Bucky’s face and Bucky realizes he’s mapping his sensitive spots, trying to figure out if some parts of his artificial skin are more sensitive than others. The realization makes his head tip back, eyes darken, and Steve grins into his kisses.

“I am coming into the kitchen!” Sam announces loudly from down the hall.

Steve immediately drops his hand and Bucky blinks back the haze. Steve goes back to washing out a cup and Bucky struggles to remember what he was doing a moment ago. Sam walks in, pours himself a glass of orange juice, and walks out with a parting announcement, “I am now going into the living room.”

Bucky chuckles and looks up at Steve.

Steve sets the cup on the counter, dries his hands, and catches two of Bucky’s fingers in a loose grip. He leads him into the hall and announces loudly, “We are in the hallway.”

Steve leads him toward the front door, past where Sam is seated on his coffee table, and continues, “We’re putting our shoes on by the front door.”

Bucky gives Sam what he means to be an apologetic smile, but he’s glowing a little too bright for that, so it comes out more like a euphoric grin.

Bucky shoves his feet in his boots while Steve announces, “We are going to the grocery store,” then drops the act to ask, “Do you need anything?”

Sam shakes his head, “What’s a man gotta do to get some respect around here?” Sam gestures into the air, “In his own house?”

Steve tugs Bucky out onto the front porch while Sam stands to call out after them, “I take you in out of the kindness of my heart! Where’s the love, Steve?”

Steve calls back, “Two more days, Sam.”

“46 hours to be exact,” Sam yells through the closing door, “Hey get me some more juice, moochers.”

Steve clicks the door closed with a smile and turns to face Bucky.

“We should get him something. A gift.” Bucky tucks his hands into his trouser pockets, trying on ‘we’ for size.

Steve nods as they walk down the front steps, “Yeah,” he hums thoughtfully and then his arm is suddenly around Bucky’s neck, pulling him closer. Bucky doesn’t react and his body sways into Steve’s. Steve ducks his head and it brushes against Bucky’s for a fleeting second. It’s not until they’re in the truck, on the road, that Bucky realizes— _I used to do that to him, when he was smaller_. 

He waits until Steve steps out of the truck and pushes the door shut behind him to sling his arm around Steve’s neck and pull him in. It’s clumsy and they both laugh. But it’s familiar in a strange way and Bucky leaves his arm there, chest turned slightly toward Steve’s shoulder so the crook of his elbow hooks around Steve’s neck. They walk in silence for a beat before Steve turns his head and presses a kiss to Bucky’s temple.

There’s a knife clipped to the inside seam of your trousers, and two guns tucked next to your skin; most men don’t have that. Your eyes flick to size up anyone that draws too close and most men don’t do that. But your skin still sweats where it sticks to the leather seats in the truck he gave you. And your head still reflexively pulls back when your teeth click against his a little too hard. You’re human. Collect the evidence for your amnesiac heart.

 

* * *

 

At night, Bucky finds tenderness comes easily. When he can’t see Steve’s soft eyes and smiles. When they’re curled in bed and pliable with sleep, Bucky holds him dearly. Like he’s the world, like he’s breakable. And if Bucky wakes before dawn, he listens to Steve breathe and thinks about how tightly they are wound up in each other. Bucky is the only thing Steve has from the life he remembers, and Steve is the only thing Bucky has because he is the only thing. There is nothing but Steve.

The sun rises and you find a thousand ways to begin. Perhaps because there were so many swallowed beginnings. You stop simply to begin again. A thousand ways to pin him. To pounce. Catch him off guard. Make him melt. You begin again and again and again. And maybe it’s just because Steve is easily persuaded to begin. Despite his heroic resistance to your past advances, slip his arms around your waist and he’ll do just about anything. Bucky plays every card, always finding new ways to get him going, riding the buzz of getting what you want for once.

But it’s not just your hunger finding new outlets. You find new ways to say I love you without the tears and desperation. Without ripping yourself to shreds.

Sitting on the couch at 2 am, Steve slouched into the couch back with Bucky’s legs sprawled over his lap. They’ve kissed until passing time doesn’t even register and Steve’s just holding Bucky’s face. He’s been holding it for— _how long? How would you know when time’s already gone to bed?_

Bucky smiles and murmurs, “You look like you can’t believe your eyes.”

Steve whispers back, “Yeah,” breathless and quiet and emotional, “I got it bad, Buck.”

Five words to force the air from your lungs, leave you feeling like an exposed flame in the wind. _What’s this?_ Warmth. Security. Everything you came looking for when you crashed back into his life. _Can you give him transparency in return?_

 

* * *

 

It happens by accident. Morning tea like usual, sitting at the kitchen table. Steve stands to get something and as he walks by, he lets his hand drift over Bucky’s chest, up his neck. Bucky melts into the touch and, on impulse, tilts his head to catch Steve’s hand between his jaw and his shoulder.

Steve stops and spins. He wraps his hand under Bucky jaw and pulls up so Bucky is looking at the ceiling, then Steve leans down and kisses him from behind. They’ve kissed like this before, the exciting, foreign slide of upside-down lips, but they both jump at the touch. Lips thick and soft and hot from drinking tea, it’s like a kiss intensified. Steve groans and urges Bucky’s lips apart with his own. Bucky huffs a pleased laugh and complies, hot tongue darting into Steve’s mouth. Steve groans again and slides his hand down Bucky’s neck, inside the collar of his shirt, down his chest, and now Bucky is groaning too. Another deep kiss and Steve pulls back while sucking Bucky’s lower lip.

Their eyes meet and they both pause. Bucky knows that look, Steve turning something over in his head. _Tell me, Steve. I want to know all your wants. Tell me how to make you shake._ Steve’s hesitating so Bucky whispers, voice rough, “You like that?”

“Yeah,” Steve’s voice just as gravelly. His eyebrows lift as he says it, like he didn’t realize it was that easy.

Bucky takes another swallow of tea and reaches up for Steve. Their lips meet in a rush of heat and sound, Steve moaning before they’ve even touched. _Holy shit_ —giving him pleasure. It’s more than just hearing the sounds he makes, feeling his body respond. It feels like some deep affirmation, some unequivocal summons, a purpose, a calling. _You can do more than keep him alive. You can swim through every day with him._ Pinch your fingers together until the blade is barely bruised. _Be tender, be tender._ Show him he is loved.

 

* * *

 

It’s a good thing Sam is asleep because it would tough to untangle yourselves from this mess in a hurry. Bucky is sprawled on the stairs, laying back, head against the edge of a tread. His knees are splayed and Steve is kneeling between them. Bucky is practicing melting, body relaxed, focused on his breathing. Steve has been picking him apart slowly. He’s getting bolder and rucking up Bucky’s shirt. Steve crawls down a couple stairs so he can kiss Bucky’s stomach. 

Bucky jumps with a little gasp at the soft press of lips in a new place. Steve hushes him with a reassuring hand on his chest, centered over his sternum. Steve trails of circle of kisses around his navel then presses a line up his lowest rib. Bucky arches into the touch, spine lifting off the stairs. 

It’s so tender— _fuck, too tender_. Affection laid bare. Steve pauses, as if he can read Bucky’s mind, and pulls his shirt back down. He climbs up a step and leans over Bucky’s face. Bucky’s blinking up at the ceiling, negotiating with his heart rate, trying to stop the anxious curl in his limbs. 

Steve hums and strokes Bucky’s cheek with his lips, “Close your eyes.”

Bucky does as he’s told.

“Just let me look at you.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and lets it out over parted lips.

“You’re gorgeous, Buck,” Steve is tucking his arms around Bucky’s waist, easing his body weight against Bucky’s body. And when Bucky is pinned under his body, Steve tucks his head into the nook of Bucky’s neck and stills. 

A long moment passes before Bucky realizes that Steve won’t be moving any time soon. They wait it out together. Until Bucky’s breathing slows to a resting rate and he wraps his arms around Steve’s back. Bucky’s legs are thrown wide and Steve is pressed between them and it could be suggestive—it was a moment ago—but it’s not now. Just intimate and familiar. 

 _Familiar because—_ familiar because you’ve been here before, held each other just like this. Pushed up against a doorframe behind his shield, it was you that pulled him close. Tenderness before you were ready to give it a name, easier when bullets were flying.

Bucky weaves his left hand up into Steve’s hair to complete the picture. Protect his head and let him protect your heart.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s just a semicolon kind of chapter, folks.
> 
> I also realized that I have a huge scar kissing kink. Give me all of the heavy handed metaphors for intimacy!! For more scar kissing, go read Night Light by thebrotherswinchester, which is amazing and beautifully written.


	3. Stare up at the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wake up next to him and wake up next to him; you’re still dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack Suggestion!
> 
> Hang Me Up to Dry by the Cold War Kids (Ingo Star Cruiser Remix)  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7z4qWme8-QE

How many times can you fall in love with him? At least every morning. At least every time you fall asleep with his head on your shoulder. At least every time he catches your hand in his, every time he meets your eyes, every time he smiles. At least. Put away your clock and keep time to the rhythm of his heart at rest.

Being in love is clearly an act of insanity. Because nothing makes sense and everything ends in kisses and muffled laughter.

Wake up next to him and wake up next to him; you’re still dreaming. Look at the way his dark hair falls loose on his neck, how one lock has wound under his shirt collar, tickling his collarbone. Steve sweeps his hand along Bucky’s skin to lift the hair outside of the fabric. Bucky’s eyes open at the touch, like there’s nothing but the veil of his eyelids between sleep and consciousness. He smiles and Steve smiles back. Emotion leaps from you the second it spots a landing point in his eyes. Eyebrows lifting, mouth softening; the expressions on your face are beyond your control.

How many times can you fall in love with him? Every morning? Because if every morning feels like this you’ll never leave this bed again.

 

* * *

 

“No, I insist.”

“Sam, come on—”

“Nope. Take it.”

“I swear, nothing—”

“Hey,” Sam cuts him off, face serious, “Steve. Stop trying to turn down my gift. I will not take no for an answer.”

Steve gives him a long look and sighs, “Fine.”

But, of course, that’s not the end of it. Sam continues, “Because I know you’re wholesome’s poster boy, but I am positive some freaky shit happened on that couch.

“Sam—” Steve’s exasperated now.

“Look, I have not sat on that couch since, you know, two very amorous super soldiers tumbled into my living room and spent over two hours making out on it. Plus who knows how many hours when I’m not home. ”

A stunned silence.

“Are you serious? You’ve haven’t sat on your couch since—”

“I’m giving you my couch. My _only_ couch. Do I look like I’m joking?”

Steve inhales slowly, “Alright,” he lets the breath out, “Thanks Sam. Can I pay you for it?”

“Definitely not,” Sam arches his eyebrows, _“Gift.”_

Steve and Bucky spend the rest of the morning packing the few things they have and loading them into the back of Bucky’s truck. They own so little that it barely fills half the truck bed. And most of that space is taken up by two black duffel bags Steve has never seen before. They just appeared when he wasn’t looking. He tried lifting one when Bucky was inside and found it incredibly heavy, full of metal things that clicked and slid as they shifted. He’s impressed Bucky’s even letting him know these bags exist.

When they’re taking Bucky’s plants out to the truck, loading them carefully into the cabin, tucking the smaller ones into the footwell, Steve’s mattress suddenly appears in the foyer.

Steve finds Sam in the kitchen, looking purposefully nonchalant with a mug of coffee in his hand, “What’s, uh—” Steve gestures toward the front hall.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam shrugs, “You guys are gonna need beds and I’m planning on never having another guest for as long as I live so—” Sam takes a drink to punctuate the explanation.

“Sam,” Steve’s voice is almost pleading. Part of it is something like strangled embarrassment that Sam thinks he and Bucky have been doing things on his furniture that would warrant quarantine, but most of it is Sam giving up even more for them, “Fine, but please, let me at least pay for it.”

“No,” Sam sets down the word so resolutely that Steve doesn’t push it.

Steve carries the mattress out to the truck singlehandedly and Bucky raises his eyebrows but doesn’t ask. When they walk back inside for a final sweep there’s another mattress by the front door.

“Sam!” Steve calls out to the house. They both stand in silence for a beat. No answer.

There’s no use fighting it. They take Bucky’s mattress out to the truck, too. And when they’re lashing it to the truck bed with some rope from the garage, Sam reappears.

“You know,” Sam is yelling from behind a mountain of white fabric, “You guys are gonna need sheets and towels, too,” he’s hustling down the front lawn,  “Like, asap. So why don’t you just take mine. All of mine.”

Steve is sputtering but Sam is already shoving the sheets between the mattresses.

“Sam,” but Steve is staring at the asphalt. There is nothing else to say. They stand in silence as Sam wedges the last of the towels into place.

Sam insists on feeding them something before they leave, which is ridiculous because their new place is less than half an hour away. Three sandwiches later, they’re standing next to the truck again, trying to figure out what to say.

“Sam,” Steve holds open both arms for a hug and Sam obliges. They pull back and Steve keeps his hand on Sam’s shoulder to say, “Thank you. For everything. I, uh—” Steve searches for the words, thinking back to their road trip, every conversation, every little push he didn’t realize he needed at the time, and suddenly his throat is closing and he’s blinking at the ground.

“Hey,” Sam could laugh it off, call him a sap, elbow him in the ribs, but he doesn’t. Sam’s never been afraid of emotion, “Any time. I mean that. I’d do this all again, right down to giving you half the furniture in my house.” Sam smiles and Steve laughs through the tightness in his chest.

Because the man you love slipped through your fingers for the second time and you were going to make the same mistake twice and not go looking for him. You’d have lost him if it wasn’t for Sam, and how do you say thank you for something like that?

“You got a good thing going,” Sam tips his head toward Bucky, who’s leaning against the truck, trying not to intrude. As if Sam can hear Steve’s thoughts, he adds, “I told you man, he’s not the kind you save. He’s the kind you stop.” His eyes glitter and Steve lets out a sound that he hopes is closer to a laugh than a sob.

Sam pulls him into another hug, “And it’s a good thing you stopped him. Because your sorry, lovesick ass would be useless without him.” Sam gives him a final pat on the back and swiftly pulls back, giving Steve space to wipe his eyes.

Bucky hugs Sam too, which sends a little spark of pride up Steve’s chest.

“Thank you. For the space and time. I owe you,” Bucky’s holds Sam’s eyes when he speaks.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Sam’s voice is more serious, matching the look in Bucky’s eyes, “I’m proud I could supply a safe place.”

And with that they’re waving, settling into the truck, a small jungle of house plants on the seat between them, and pulling into the street.

Steve’s heart is suddenly light with anticipation. The mid-afternoon sunlight lights up the inside of the cab as Bucky turns west. Steve turns his head and lets his eyes sweep from his careful eyes, steady chin, the strong line of his arm resting on top of the steering wheel, down to his legs resting easy on the seat.

Sometimes you watch him and think of what you’ll do to him. But most of the time, you watch him and think of what he does to you when he’s doing nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Their place. _Our place_. _Ours._ _His and mine. Together. Both of us._ It feels nothing like Brooklyn and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

They’re on the top floor, because Bucky demanded at least four different exit paths and roof access. A renovated warehouse close to downtown. Huge windows and wood floors. 

It’s about ten times nicer than Steve’s old apartment and likely ten times as expensive. He can’t even remember what the rent is because Bucky wants to live here and all Steve can remember is the weightless feeling of giving him something he wants. Getting to be the provider for once.

Walking up the stairs behind Bucky, watching his boots scuff each step, the line of his calves through his trousers. There’s an elevator somewhere. They don’t use it and Steve doesn’t have to ask why.

Bucky stops in front of their door and pulls out the keys they had copied earlier today. Watch his nimble fingers find the right key, thread the lock. He twists the knob with his flesh hand and pushes it open with the metal one. He is so beautiful. Watching him open the door to your home— _our home_ —leaves you breathless.

The apartment is glowing, golden honey, from the sunlight reflecting off the polished Cherry floor. Bucky insists on wiping down the floor before they move anything in. 

Steve feels that reflexive pull to tease him for it but can’t quite find words that feel right on his tongue. Just a few seconds later, Bucky’s on his hands and knees, sliding a damp cloth over the floor. Steve watches him until his eyes are lingering on the backs of his thighs, watching his arms flex as he shifts, and decides to go grocery shopping. Leave Bucky to his cleaning now and take your time pushing him against every surface in this apartment later.

Grocery shopping feels strange because it’s been a long time since he’s gone without Bucky. Steve’s feet weigh nothing and he buys bananas and milk and celery and breakfast cereal for the man he loves. He fills the cart with little things to surprise him. Cheese he’s never seen before. Bitter chocolate. Oven mitts.

And when you’re done you’ll drive home again, where he’s waiting for you. And if he’s still cleaning the floor you’ll tackle him and sprawl over his body because love is impatience and tender recklessness. Because you live together now— _can that possibly be real?_

Steve comes home to him and uses the stairs because Bucky uses the stairs. He twists open the door and sets the groceries by the fridge. The floor is spotless and the apartment is silent. Steve calls out for him and there is no reply. The apartment is one large space with a single bedroom off to the side. Steve walks into the bedroom, leans into the bathroom, calls out again, and returns to the main room.  

What was silence is now unease. It rings in his ears, a rising alarm. Steve walks back into the bedroom and heads straight for the window. _There’s a fire escape. Could he be outside?_ Steve slides open the glass and bends at the waist to fit through the opening. The metal creaks under foot and the sounds of the street below rise up on the breeze.

Steve leaves the window open and climbs the ladder to the roof. Deserted. He lifts his leg over the lip of the roof and steps onto the concrete. Three steps from the edge and he stops. Goosebumps rush up his back. Feeling very alone and strangely undone. Above everything, he can see for blocks and blocks, and Steve just wants to hold him.

 _Well, he’s not here._ Steve turns back toward the ladder, eyes unfocused, brow furrowing— and there he is. Standing just behind Steve, watching him silently. Seeing Bucky is a shock and surge. It washes straight through him, drips from his ribs. Fall in love with him again. _Jesus, Buck._

It must all show on his face because Bucky is walking closer, dark eyes. He grabs Steve’s wrist and pulls him toward the edge. Bucky kneels and drags him down, pushing Steve’s shoulders against the knee-high wall that circles the perimeter. 

He rushes in, knees resting on either side of one of Steve’s thighs, one hand on the wall, one on Steve’s chest. Kissing him like Bucky’s forgotten he can do it whenever he wants.

Bucky kisses across Steve’s cheekbone— _his body radiates heat and every wisp of warm air smells like him_ —he murmurs, “We did this backward, you know that?” _Shit, his voice._ Already gravelly with the promise of more.

“Did what— ah,” Bucky’s mouthing at a new favorite spot just in front of Steve’s earlobe, “Did what backward?”

“Aren’t you supposed to ease into things? Figure out how to say ‘I like you’ before you’re head over heels?”

“Didn’t we—” Bucky interrupts him with a kiss, and another, “Didn’t we ease into things? Aren’t we—”

Bucky laughs, blue eyes sparking, “You asked me to move in with you before you told me you loved me.” 

Steve’s mind is tripping over the words, too stuck on the sounds, that when the meaning starts to emerge from the haze, all he can think is— _is that what he thinks about? The things I’ve said? The first time I told him I loved him? What else does he replay?_ Selfishly, he thinks— _tell me how to make you light up again, which words will echo in your mind._

Steve’s mind has nothing so he lets his tingling lips mumble, “Special case,” into another kiss.

“Aren’t you supposed to see if it’ll work before you move in together?” Bucky murmurs it, no change in tone, and kisses him around the question mark.

 _Oh, that’s what he’s asking._ Steve tucks his chin to break the kiss. _Now I see what you need from me_ , “I already know it works. It has always worked. It has never done anything but work,” Bucky’s gaze is steady. He has a way of waiting, still eyes, when he wants more, “There is nothing to wait and see about. Nothing new here. Just you and me. Like it’s always been."

The words don’t really matter. Truthfully, you’ve been living together since he showed up Sam’s kitchen; this isn’t about the apartment. He just needs to hear the certainty in your voice. Because he is asking, brave and fragile— _tell me why I belong here again?_ And all he needs to hear is— _because I love you._

Bucky’s eyes fall to Steve’s chin. He thinks a moment and replies, “You left frozen food on the wood floor.” Steve laughs and Bucky smiles back at him.

 

* * *

 

Privacy is a wonderful disaster. Without Sam’s comings and goings to pull them apart, they rarely part at all. Bucky pushed their two mattresses together on the floor of the main room and that’s where they’ve stayed. The couch found a home, sitting at a strange angle by the south wall, and was never moved. They piled the rest of their things in the bedroom and closed the door.

Spend every day in an empty, sun-drenched room with nothing but two mattresses, a couch, and the man you dream about. Spend over half of each day with your eyes closed, kissing him, holding him, sleeping with your nose in his hair, just talking with your foreheads resting together. Take a ridiculous number of naps so you can wake up next to him and wake up next to him. Narrow your world to his touch and count— _how many times?_

The morning of the fourth day in their new home. They eat breakfast sitting at the edge of one of the mattresses: yogurt and raspberries. Then Bucky pushes his bowl away and Steve pushes his bowl away, anticipation sparking, and Bucky is in his arms, thigh sliding into place, weight shifting on top of Steve’s hips. Kiss. That’s all you hoped to do today anyway. 

Bucky’s hands are under his shirt, sliding up to the bottom of his ribs, rucking up the hem as they drift higher, until they’re sliding from his ribcage to the under side of his arm and it becomes clear Bucky’s taking off his shirt. Steve does nothing to stop him, lifts his shoulders from the mattress, and Bucky hums his approval when the fabric finally lifts free of Steve’s head. Bucky sits back, straddling Steve’s hips, and takes him in, head settling to one side. He runs light finger tips from the hollow of his throat to the waistband of his trousers and Steve shivers at the way his eyes flash.

Bucky lets Steve know exactly what he thinks of this new development with his tongue, hot and wet, soft pressure, flat against Steve’s exposed stomach. He starts a slow stripe up Steve’s skin and Steve immediately arches into it. By the time Bucky reaches his sternum Steve’s lost it. Bucky’s still drawing his line up and up, shoulder, throat, jaw, and Steve is groaning, “Do it again,” without a second thought. 

Bucky gives him what he asks for. Trailing back down Steve’s skin, just skimming the tip of his nose, edge of his closed lips, hint of stubble tickling, taking his time. He starts lower this time and lets his tongue dip into Steve’s navel on the way up. Steve lets slip a hitching moan and Bucky replies with a indecent sound over his tongue. Steve lets him explore, moaning shamelessly and keeping his hands on the sheets. It’s not long before Steve’s composure is thoroughly shot and when he can do nothing to stop the shake in his knees, he pushes up on his elbows and looks around for his shirt.

Bucky reads his intention effortlessly and grabs his shirt from the mess of sheets, making brief eye-contact to confirm this is what Steve wants, turns it right-side out, rumples the sides in his hands, and holds it up. Steve slips his arms through, feels the cotton settle on his kiss-stained skin, and swallows. Here’s your opening; he’s handed it to you with a smile. Pull back and take a break. 

But. That careful flick of his eyes. He’s so sensitive to how you want things to go. And his lips are swollen and he’s wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and he’s looking down and breathing deep to calm himself and—

Steve’s hand is around the back of his neck before he can think better of it, pulling him in all over again. Bucky meets his lips with a groan. Slip and slip. Steady yourself to feel that dizzy slip again. Moan each others’ names like the sweetest sounds you know.

Bucky takes his shirt off again and Steve eventually puts it back on again. Around they go, twice more before Steve gives up and lets Bucky’s hands cover his chest instead. Not long after that it’s his hands pulling up fabric and Bucky’s shirt falling to the floor too, taking with it any thought of leaving the apartment this morning.

Kiss, shift your bodies together, and forget you ever knew how to tell time. The noonday sun finds them at the window, Bucky’s bare back pressed to the glass. Steve’s hand under one of his knees, folding him up on the sill. Bucky’s other leg is resting bent with his bare foot against Steve’s hip. The weight of it is wonderful, pressure a tug on Steve’s mind, urging him to push against Bucky even harder.

You’ve been feeling along, closer and closer to the cliff edge. You’re the guide here and you ought to have pulled back hours ago. But you’re too captivated by that whisper tempting you around the corner to some new, deeper pleasure. You’ve got your other hand curled around Bucky’s lower back, fingers tucked into his trousers, massaging circles into his tailbone. The bruise you sucked on his shoulder has already faded so you’re making him a new one. Bucky’s hands are curled around your skin somewhere, it’s all too hazy to work out exactly where. All that matters is he’s holding you close and the sounds he’s making are beckoning you even closer— _just around the next corner, let’s go, come on, a little bit more._

And just when a steadier voice in Steve’s head raises a question, Bucky’s hands release. Steve starts to pull back but Bucky catches his wrist. He moves quickly, with purpose. Bucky tugs Steve’s hand straight to his crotch and pushes down, both hands grinding his cock into Steve’s palm through his trousers. His hips buck, foot pushing down on Steve’s hip for leverage, and he makes the most incredible sound. It wells up from deep in his stomach and arcs through his curved spine, carrying the echo of every spark of pleasure it passes. Bucky’s eyes roll back and Steve has lost his grip. The steady voice in his mind says _too far, not now, pull back_ but his fingers are twitching to push down on Bucky again and voiceless lust is growling for more. 

Before Steve can lose this battle with himself, Bucky lifts his leg, plants his foot squarely on Steve’s chest and kicks. Hard. Not as hard as he could but hard enough. Steve staggers back.

The cool air of their apartment swims between them. Steve steadies himself and looks up at Bucky, still crumpled in the window sill. His chest is heaving and he’s covered in the aftershocks of closeness. Tangled, soft hair. Blown, lidded eyes. Bruised, flushed skin. The erection that pulls his pants tight across his hips. Bucky waits. _Your move._

Steve’s steady voice claims control and he laughs. A little breathless, a little rueful. A beat of silence. Then Bucky points at the ground where his shirt lies. Steve scoops it up and throws it to him.

 

* * *

 

Bucky starts asking. More questions than he’s ever asked before. He asks about the way things were and the way they are. He asks about high fashion and aerospace engineering and shoes for kids that light up. His mind unfolds and maps its gaps through his words. Bucky spends a lot of time whispering. Most of his words come when they’re too close to speak at a normal volume. He asks about Steve before the serum. How he looked, talked, moved. He asks if Steve’s hair parted the same way back then. 

Bucky asks for things with his eyes, too. Steve never says no. 

Steve caught him against the bathroom door, pushing Bucky’s wrists back against the wood paneling behind him. They’re both still for a minute then Bucky’s face melts into something like a pout. His eyebrows knit slightly and his chin lifts a bit. He looks down at Steve’s lips to say— _where’s my kiss?_ There’s no denying him.

They go running together some mornings. Bucky looks too good with the wind whipping his hair. There’s no point really; they never sweat. But if they run long enough their breathing picks up. Might just be their minds remembering what exhaustion is supposed to feel like, or it might be watching each others’ bodies move. Hard to sort out things like that when you’ve pulled him off the path and pinned him in an alleyway, hands gripping just above his elbows, knuckles against the brick. He’s breathing hard and you can’t stop staring at his parted lips. His chin is tucked and his shadowed eyes flick up, dark and demanding, to ask— _you’ve got me here, now what are you going to do about it?_

Intimacy is everywhere. In every action, every thought. You used to orbit but now you’ve collided. The unyielding gravity of this universe shapes you both into something new. Trust can bloom, delicate flower in a peaceful place. So till the soil and still the shaking earth with your bare hands. Let his vines use your ribs as their lattice, his roots sink in your gut. Trust will be tested. Throw your weight into its net, tangle yourself in the rope and mesh, and stitch it closed like a cocoon. Pay the price of this new life—the broken half you used to be—and he will do the same.

 

* * *

 

Bucky asks with his body too. Steve tries to answer but he’s not fluent in this language. 

Bucky asks with little touches that carry little questions. Soft fingertips glancing over the back of Steve’s neck. A snug arm around his waist when they kiss. It pulls tighter and drifts looser. Sitting across from each other at a small table in a coffee shop, just looking at each other because it hasn’t occurred to them to hide anything. Bucky straightens his knee and finds the back of Steve’s calf with the top of his boot. He strokes a secret caress down to his ankle and watches Steve with steady eyes.

Bucky’s arm is bent with elbow on the table top. His head is tucked down, resting forward with his mouth just slightly open, front of his teeth pressed to the pad of his thumb. With Steve’s eyes on him, he lets his thumb fall and pull his lower lip down a bit as it goes. Bucky’s eyes wander, sweeping the cafe, and he strokes another line down the back of Steve’s calf.

Steve has no idea how to respond to any of these touches. Bucky seems like he’s mapping him out, pushing every button and recording the reaction. Careful and methodical. 

It’s strange and wonderful and completely disorienting. Should he say something? Should he nod? Smile? Moan? Should he try each of these things on Bucky? Maybe they’re not questions, but requests. Steve tries to react naturally and wrestle his self-consciousness into the background. 

Bucky makes it all feel so organic. He’s so graceful. Every movement just enough, still understated. Effortlessly attractive, charming even when he’s not trying to be. Steve’s none of that. Matching Bucky’s fluency with eager clumsiness.

Sometimes, he shows Steve what to do. Steve’s sitting on the couch with his hand along the couch back. Bucky sits and Steve’s hand immediately rises to weave into his hair. But before he can stroke a familiar arc over his scalp, Bucky tips his head to the side and catches Steve’s thumb with his temple. He pushes in, and turns his head, massaging himself against Steve’s finger. Bucky guides him, nuzzling him thumb to new spots, showing him how to stroke up from his jaw, in front of his ear, up to his hair line. He teaches silently and gently.

Eventually, Bucky finds the tipping point. He catches Steve at the sink, when he’s scrubbing a pot with something stubborn burned onto the bottom. Bucky’s chest bumps Steve’s back and his hands sneak under the fabric of his shirt to close on either side of Steve’s hips. He curls his fingers, digging in. He drags his fingertips into fists. Maybe he knew that Steve’s skin is sensitive and a little ticklish there, or maybe he’s just now figured that out. Steve stills. Bucky does it again and Steve shivers. Bucky huffs a little exhale against his neck and that’s the end of it. Steve spins and kisses him. One soapy hand gripping his jaw. 

“Buck,” Steve doesn’t pull back quite far enough and the word is lost in the soft, wet, urgent brush of lips, “Bucky,” Steve kisses him again. Wet fingers behind his neck. Can’t think of anything to say but his name. Bucky makes a surprised, pleased sound. 

Bucky is a quick learner, or perhaps a clever teacher. He grabs Steve’s hips again and again, fingers curling possessive and knowing over his skin, until it becomes shorthand for— _kiss me._ Bucky abuses his power mercilessly. Demanding kisses whenever and wherever he likes. Grocery shopping is sidetracked by three kisses in produce, two in dry goods, and four in frozen. Steve complies as soon as he feels Bucky’s fingers on his hip and Bucky meets him a new way each time. Sometimes he’s right over Steve's shoulder, kissing him before he’s fully turned around. Sometimes he backs a few feet away, leaning into a cocked shoulder, chin tucked so Steve has to nose his way in.

This is a game Steve understands. Point, counterpoint. Be surprised and surprise him back. Be ready for every sweet attack. Around the house, when Steve’s distracted. Or on the bike, bending around to kiss him at a stoplight. Turning every time to see his untamed smile. You love him fiercely when he’s wild.

 

* * *

 

With all his requests and questions and simple games, Bucky shows Steve how to ask and answer. Bucky teases. He asks and then declines, invites and demurs. He’s playful. How could you have known? How good it could be?

One evening, Steve comes home from a quick errand to find Bucky on the couch. He bends over to kiss him hello, though they were barely apart for half an hour, and Bucky, lightning quick, catches the back of his head. He kisses Steve fast and deep. Sensation shocks before Steve can sort it out. It’s shockingly cold. Bucky’s tongue is slippery and chilled and he’s sliding a smooth sliver of ice into Steve’s mouth. Steve gasps and Bucky hums. You’re quick but he’s quicker. The steady fingers on the back of his neck feel like a promise— _show me what you like and I’ll reward you._

Bucky shifts, pulling up the hem of Steve’s shirt. Steve yelps at the jolt of cold on his skin. Bucky laughs and runs two icy metal fingers up Steve’s spine.

“I thought you’d see that coming a mile away,” Bucky’s mischievous grin is just as devastating when Steve’s too close for his eyes to really focus on it. “Getting distracted, Rogers.” Bucky reprimands him with a soft click of his tongue.

 

* * *

 

There are more years ahead of you than behind you. You rarely think about the past these days. Memories are for when you’re missing someone. When he’s here, right here next to you, you’d rather be in the present. There’s something bewitching about simply existing. The unknown future rushing up to meet you in a regular rhythm, waves lapping at your toes. You’ve never had so little to regret.

So put away your memories. Be here and show him how badly you want to live this. Tell him there is no other place, no other time you’d rather be than right here, right now. No better version of him than the man in your arms. No better home than your nest. Put away your memories and live for this moment. This breath. This touch. The word. This flick of light over his face. What you had in Brooklyn was the best you knew but it was nothing like this. 

Don’t forget. Keep his dog tags close to remember when it was the last you had of him. Call each other childhood nicknames because there is something so natural in the way they roll off your tongue. The perfect punctuation marks, made just for you and him.

File the rest away somewhere safe. You may need it some day. Put away your memories and think with the warm water in your chest. Let his laugh be the only thing that echoes in your mind and write a new story for the crinkles around his eyes.

 

* * *

 

It’s much easier to just float, let Bucky map him out an inch at a time. But when the opportunity presents itself, you ought to tell him. Go on, be brave, tell him what it would take him weeks to work out. He wants to hear it.

Bucky has a particular way of gasping Steve’s name when he’s panting. He has a thousand ways to moan it, but when he’s past that, and even past the slew of curses he trips over when his lips are thick, when the only word he has left is Steve, he breathes around it. Hissing the first sound on his exhale and sucking in the soft ending between his upper teeth and lower lip as he gasps a new breath— _Ste-ve._

The first time he does it, it rips through the space between Steve’s ears like an arrow. Incredulously, he thinks— _it couldn’t have been—_ then Bucky does it again and Steve groans in reply, without meaning to. Nothing else has struck him so immediately, pulled the carpet from under his feet so swiftly. Left him panting on Bucky’s skin, thinking the babble his mind is too careful to let loose— _again Bucky, shit, please, say it again, more of that, I want to hear you, say my name again, Bucky, oh my god._

Steve pulls back and Bucky’s glassy eyes blink and swim. His lips are parted and the corner cocks into a smirk when eyes finally find focus on Steve’s face.

“I like that,” Steve says simply.

Bucky blinks, “Like what?”

Steve ducks his head, hiding a blush with his lips on Bucky’s earlobe. “The way you say my name.”

A beat of silence. A low chuckle vibrates Bucky’s chest, then he hums a thoughtful sound. Bucky moves quickly, pushing Steve off and onto his back, crawling over him, holding him in place with a hand on each bicep. He leans down and gasps, so quietly, “Steve.”

The electric shock down the back of legs isn’t pleasure but something like embarrassment. A deep, jolting stroke of self-consciousness.

It’s one thing to swim with him, trade touches, and answer with soft sounds, and another entirely to ask for something specific and get it. What are you supposed to do now? How are you supposed to react? You took something private, the way the sound of your name from his lips moves through your body of its own accord, and strung it out in the air between you.

Steve is still. He unwinds himself from not knowing where to go from here and quickly coils himself into worrying what his silence telegraphs to Bucky. If Bucky can hear the thoughts rushing, he doesn’t let on. He noses at Steve’s temple for a moment, waiting, or thinking, or—

Bucky hums and whispers again, “Steve.” He lowers his head and breathes it right into Steve’s ear. He tucks in and murmurs it just behind Steve’s ear, stubbly cheek brushing the outside curve. He pushes Steve’s head with his own, ducks lower and says it to the soft skin under his chin. Bucky mumbles and murmurs and gasps his name, over and over, until Steve’s confession is so far behind them that Steve eases back into the present and lets the sounds wash.

Bucky opens his mouth and speaks the word around Steve’s earlobe. The gentle tug of his teeth, the fleeting flick of his tongue. Steve exhales a soft sound and tips his head to ask for more. Bucky does it again, his voice carrying a hint of gravel this time. He does it again and again, drawing more sounds from Steve’s throat.

Bucky’s hand curls into Steve’s hair and he presses himself hard to Steve’s skin. He growls Steve’s name, low and savage. Steve whimpers at the pressure, the intention in Bucky’s voice. Bucky nips down his jaw, letting his teeth press gently into Steve’s skin as he hisses each S. He grinds his hips and gives every flash of pleasure the same name.

Bucky pauses at his chin and moves to Steve’s lips, instantly feather light again, and whispers the word that’s sounding less and less like a name, just before closing their lips. He rests so light, effortless and easy the way an upper lip rests on its pair. Bucky whispers again and Steve opens his lips to breathe it in. Suddenly, Bucky’s in his mouth. Kissing deep with no warning. Breathing the first sounds and finishing the name with his tongue in Steve’s mouth. It feels and sounds completely obscene. Steve moans and his arms jump where Bucky still has them pinned. Steve can feel Bucky’s grin quirk. Bucky pulls Steve’s lower lip into his mouth and makes the sounds Steve asked for, teeth and tongue using Steve’s lip like it’s his own.

 

* * *

 

It’s the little things. The thrill of touching his skin just under the collar of his shirt. How many times? Every time. Every hour. Every touch that first whisper of heat on the breeze when the sun starts to warm the day. The dawn must be coming, it always comes. And yet, expectation does nothing to temper your amazement.

Bucky either plans everything brilliantly or improvises seamlessly. Steve lets his clumsy infatuation steer from time to time. He hopes Bucky at least finds it endearing.

Bucky is eating an apple. Steve was eating an apple and now he’s watching Bucky with an apple in his hand. Nothing makes sense and you allow the chaos. Everything draws your eye like fireworks in the middle of the night. You’ve seen one explosion but here comes another. Watch it burst. No matter how wide-eyed your watching, your mind records some lesser image. Memory never matches the ephemeral, incredible, unearthly flash of light. So watch every flash, unashamed. There’s no capturing it anyway, so stare up at the sky.

Steve drops his apple on the counter and moves quickly. His hands decide on Bucky’s hips and he doesn’t have time to stop them. Bucky looks up just as Steve shoves him backward into the fridge. Bucky’s head knocks hard against the metal door and he grimaces. Steve stills, pinning Bucky to the fridge, and watches. 

Bucky watches him back for a moment. His eyes dart over Steve’s face, looking for some cue or waiting for an explanation. They breathe against each other for a few seconds. Then Bucky’s eyebrows lift and his eyes sparkle. He raises his hand and turns his head. Steve watches his jaw flex as he takes another bite of the apple. Bucky chews and Steve watches him. Doesn’t censor his eyes for once. Just looks. The way his lips press and twist. The way the tip of his nose dips when he opens his mouth. The sharp cut of his jaw, how it looks good from every angle, how the tendons flex when his teeth grind down. Bucky works through his apple, taking his time. He looks deeply amused and he’s clearly fighting off a smile. When the fruit is mostly gone, Bucky takes a few small bites around the top and bottom, pulling the last of it from the core. A drop of juice settles in the crease of his lips and he licks it away.

Bucky turns to Steve, eyes on Steve’s mouth, and loses the battle with his lips, grin spreading. He raises the apple core and pushes one end of it to Steve’s lower lip. Steve opens his mouth and bites off half of it. He chews and Bucky watches him, eyes bright. Steve swallows and Bucky feeds him the other half, stem and all. Steve chews and swallows. Bucky is the first to crack, snickering through his nose. Steve’s feels Bucky’s stomach flex under his hands. Steve snorts in reply and Bucky’s chuckle blooms into a laugh. His head tips back and Steve leans in. If hearing his laugh is happiness, then feeling it reverberate with your lips on his throat is—

 

* * *

 

Routine slips through your fingers. It comes and goes. Some days you have three meals and sleep at night. Some nights you kiss on the roof until Bucky’s sounds could wake the entire building and spend the next day napping with the mattresses pushed in the corner, out of the sun’s reach. Some days you go on a walk around the city that stretches into the evening. You sit on the waterfront and wait for the animals that come out at night. Watch the sunrise with your feet in the water and Bucky’s head on your thigh. Then brush off your trousers, put on your shoes, find an early breakfast at a diner, and walk some more with his hand in yours.

The only constant is the ebb and flow of arousal. Hard or half-hard or about to be hard. There is probably so much touching because there is so little release.

And there could be a lot more release. Steve’s considers it. Considers it seriously when Bucky’s hands are trembling on the back of his neck and he’s breathing hard, mumbling favorite curses— _holy shit—_ and asking for it with everything but his words. Bucky never asks. He’s talkative when he’s turned on but he never asks for more. Not out loud. Steve sees it in his eyes, feels it in his touch. 

He didn’t really mean for this to happen. To be the one who said, “okay, alright” when touches got serious and fingers dug and gasps became pants. Taking it slow felt like a good idea. Taking something slow anyway. It’s easier to keep his pants on then try to muffle the proclamations you whisper into his skin at night.

They could make this a joint decision. They could talk about boundaries and progress and goals. Steve could ask about the times when Bucky asks him to take over, when he goes liquid under Steve’s touch and closes his eyes. He could ask why Bucky lets himself shake until the shaking is too much and he has to stop. He could ask him what he’s chasing, what it feels like, what he wants. 

But the way his eyes blow black as soon as Steve starts touching, how long it takes him to get his breathing under control, it makes Steve think Bucky probably doesn’t have the answer to those questions. Why ask and make him feel like he should have an answer? Past unanswered questions sent him tripping out the nearest door. He asks for what he wants and stops when he needs to stop and he doesn’t run. That’s enough for now.

Steve carries the questions of when and how and why alone. It gives Bucky more space to say yes. So he only ever has to say no to himself, something he suggested. 

Though sometimes it’s less like a natural stopping point and more like a hard stop. And in those moments you’re not really thinking of him, are you? Not worrying about what he’s ready for, not really. That’s something else.

And maybe this whole thing looks very different from inside Bucky’s body. He’s been mapping Steve out, and not just with little touches carrying little questions. Bucky’s found more fuses than Steve knew he had. He knows exactly how to set Steve off and doesn’t. He presses Steve’s hands where he needs them, gives him a moan he can’t resist, and kicks him squarely in the chest.

 

* * *

 

Making out on the couch. Shirtless because there’s no taking that back. 

Steve slips from— _fuck, it’s Bucky, Bucky’s tongue, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s cock pressing hard and close_ —to some blurrier sort of arousal, because— _shit, what is he doing with his tongue?_ —and— _do that again, Buck, touch me like that again_. You thought you didn’t have anything new to learn about resolve. 

You like it here. You’ve learned a particular brand of waiting. You soak, play, explore, and find new pleasures in the soup. You’re in no hurry and you don’t just learn that he likes it when you touch his nipples, you learn exactly how to touch them. Teasing, circling steadily closer. Gentle but firm fingertips. Followed by the soft texture and pressure of Steve’s tongue. Grazing fingernails, a whisper of friction. Then suck the sensitive skin until it contracts. Pinch and he’ll yelp.

Fantasy forgets the ecstasy of being so close to another. So close that your pleasure becomes his and his becomes yours. Fantasy is never surprised by a kiss on the shoulder that makes your stomach flip.

 

* * *

 

You love him when he’s measured and quiet. At a hardware store, in the aisles between towering stacks that remind Steve of a more threatening place. Steve went looking for some kind of screw, they need new doorknobs or something—clarity flees as he turns down the aisle where he left Bucky to find him still there. Standing still with one hand braced against the shelves and the other holding something. Steve walks closer and Bucky sets the thing down and picks up another— a doorknob, of course. He’s putting little dents in each one, testing their strength with his metal thumb. Bucky frowns and moves to the next one.

Why is he doing that? Curiosity takes a back seat to this weightless feeling. _He’s so thoughtful with his shoulders set like that._ Again, Steve? Mind already a haze, the thought is distant— _how many times?_

Steve doesn’t slow as he approaches and grabs Bucky’s forearm as he passes him. From the corner of his eye he sees Bucky spin. Instantly, Bucky’s body shifts to alert. His eyes flick to the elderly man at the end of the aisle, scanning for a threat. The doorknob drops neatly onto the shelf and Bucky’s hand darts to his hip, where Steve knows he has a few knives to choose from.

Steve pulls him to the end of the aisle, spins at the corner, and slams them both back against the shelf. He’s quick to catch the back of Bucky’s head before he knocks it against the metal frame and kisses him hard. The next breath carries a desperate sound from his throat. His hands shake minutely against Bucky’s skin. Steve deepens the kiss without pulling back, pushing Bucky’s mouth open with his own, filling it with his tongue. Bucky makes a muffled sound into the wet heat. Steve slips a hand inside Bucky’s jacket, all the way around his waist, and tightens it on his opposite hip. He’s pulls Bucky’s body flush and holds him for a moment— _you’re mine_. Steve releases him. He swallows and steps back to see Bucky watching his lips. Steve walks back to the doorknobs. Half a beat before Bucky follows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like long chapters! ^.^


	4. Roll Your Shoulders Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pulls his hand away, as if to move on, and Steve catches his wrist, “what else?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack suggestion!
> 
> Silvia by Miike Snow (Robotberget Remix)  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wESe2TlqLH4

They sleep with all the windows open. In fact, the windows are rarely closed, night or day. There’s so much space in their home and so few walls to stifle it, so the air gusts and eddies through the apartment like it’s still outside. From where they sleep in the center of the floor, it’s impossible to tell they’re in a room at all.

Bucky lays in bed with one arm resting on his forehead. Closed eyes, still body— _what is this place?_ The air drifts by like you’re on the roof, carrying the sounds of the city and the humid, fresh, nighttime smell. Goosebumps ripple up Bucky’s legs, branch out over the backs of his arms. _What is this peaceful place?_ Did you know you could leave the whole world six stories beneath you? Was that Steve’s plan all along?

 

* * *

 

Bucky never misses the chance to tug Steve’s shirt off. Look at him, touch him, taste him. Make him blush or make his chest heave. You’ll never get enough. It’s that insatiable feeling of standing open-mouthed under a waterfall— _have you done that? Or are you stitching together a darker sensation and a brighter place?_ —there’s so much and you want all of it. It’s not possible to have it all but that won’t stop you from trying. Drink him in at every opportunity. 

So why did it take you so long to catch that nervous flick in his eyes? The first time it barely registered, the second time it made you pause, and the third time it arrested your hand in mid-air, just over his skin.

“Hey,” Bucky speaks to bring Steve’s eyes up to meet his own, “what’s that for?”

“What’s what for?”

“You look away when I take your shirt off,” Bucky runs his thumb across a few inches of Steve’s freshly bared chest and grins, “You bashful, Rogers?”

Steve’s reaction is a little too much like a wince. He shrugs and gathers his face into a smile.

Bucky frowns. He cocks his head to one side and considers the man splayed out under him, “You know I like what I see, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods but his eyes can’t quite complete the gesture. They slide away to the wall behind Bucky’s head. 

Steve moves to kiss Bucky’s collarbone and Bucky steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, “Steve.”

“What?”

Bucky looks at him for a long moment. Steve’s eyes are doing something familiar. A code that Bucky used to know. They’re sparking like he’s ready for a fight but there’s no heat. A skinny kid bristling at a slight. A slim face with a fierce look when he was counted out for being too small, too sick. A look that snarls _don’t you dare_ but stays on the bench, because under his tough act he fears he is too small. He is too sick.

Bucky floats with instinct. _Why that look? Why now?_ The washed out fog of memory puts the words in Bucky’s mouth, “You think you’re losing a fight or something?”

“What?” Steve’s tone is sharp, confused, concerned. 

A pause. Bucky waits until instinct provides another stepping stone, “Talk to me,” he brushes his fingertips along Steve’s cheek, “I know that look.”

Steve stares and Bucky waits. Talking—really talking—requires a lot of silence. More silence than words.

Steve draws a long breath and Bucky’s body lifts along with him, feeling like driftwood in a wave, “I don’t think I’m losing a fight. It’s nothing new,” Steve finally says. He meets Bucky’s gaze but his eyes are closed off, “It’s just—I’m not. You’re so— comfortable. And I’m not. As comfortable. That’s all.”

“Okay,” Bucky nods, voice quiet, “comfortable with what?”

Steve shakes his head. He’s tense under Bucky’s body and everything about him says he doesn’t want to talk about this, “I don’t know. How you—your—I don’t know.”

Bucky waits. Instinct insists that there is nothing to do but wait. Steve will find words for everything if you give him enough time.

“You just—” Steve inhales quickly, sounding frustrated, “You look pretty much the same, you know? After the serum. I mean you’re bigger, of course, but you looked great before and you look great now. You’re just— you, you know? You’re still you.”

Bucky feels the furrow in his brow deepen, “And what are you?”

“This?” Steve gestures at himself, hands flicking with exasperation, “I don’t know.” Steve folds his arms over his chest, an awkward block between them.

Bucky watches Steve try to curl in on himself and tries to figure out what the hell he’s talking about, “You don’t like your body?”

“No,” Steve cuts in quickly, “No, I mean—”

Bucky interrupts with a tiny smirk, “I know about 7 billion people who’d trade with you.”

Steve rolls his eyes but Bucky doesn’t let him reply. He’s found his mark so he leans in, two quick kisses and asks Steve’s lips, “Tell me what you don’t like,” Bucky kisses him again, “Tell me one thing.”

“It’s not like that, Buck,” Steve’s voice has lost it’s edge, “not that I don’t like, just—”

Bucky interrupts again with a kiss, “Okay,” another kiss, “so tell me one thing.”

Steve sighs and Bucky interrupts that with a kiss as well. “Fine.” 

Bucky kisses him again and waits, forehead resting against Steve’s.

“I wish I had chest hair.”

Bucky sits back. He searches Steve’s face, then looks down at his chest. That was unexpected. Bucky had never really considered Steve’s smooth chest before. He didn’t have any hair before the serum, so why would he have any after?

“Yeah?” Bucky looks up at Steve’s eyes again.

“Yeah,” Steve continues before Bucky can say anything else, “I wish I could grow a beard, too.”

Of course, nothing grows on Steve’s face. He was the only guy without a scruffy beard after they marched back into camp in Italy. Bucky stills— _how have I never thought about that before?_ His hands rest light on Steve’s chest and he stares, trying to pull one question from the flood— _why do you? so you think? you wish? but— but, Steve—_

His mind selects the most absurd option and he says, “but then I couldn’t do this,” and licks a wet stripe from Steve’s chin to his ear. 

Steve laughs, surprised, “well, you could, but—”

Bucky does it again, quickly, which buys him just enough time to figure out what to do next. He wraps his arm around Steve’s head and holds him still and close for a second to whisper, “let me tell you about your body.”

Bucky releases him and sits back. He starts at the top, “This haircut looks good on you. It frames your face. It’s easier to see all the things your eyebrows do when you smile.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve chuckles and shifts, looking off to the side like Bucky’s ribbing him.

No smile in return, Bucky’s not joking around. “Yeah. Your eyebrows are nice, too. They say what you really mean. And as far as I can tell, they didn’t change much with the serum.”

“Yeah,” Steve’s smile is settling and Bucky has his attention.

“This nose,” Bucky smiles and runs his thumb straight down the bridge, “is the same, too. It was a little big for you before, but you wore it well. Gave you character.”

Steve grins. He waits for Bucky to continue.

“Your mouth,” Bucky pauses deliberately and let’s his thumb trail over Steve’s upper lip and catch on the curve of the lower. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, “I like your mouth.”

Steve laughs. Bucky will never get tired of that self-conscious blush.

“Your chin—”

Steve cuts him off, “Oh that’s it?” his eyebrow cocks up with his lopsided grin, “Why don’t you tell me about my mouth some more?”

Bucky obliges, leaning in with a focused expression. He kisses Steve and it sparks. Lips feeling new and raw from words never before spoken, “Nice shape,” Bucky kisses him, “Bottom lip is good for—” Bucky sucks Steve’s lower lip into his mouth and lets it slowly slip free. “Nice color,” he whispers to Steve’s mouth. “Feels good,” Bucky kisses him, already losing his balance a bit to the unsteadying swirl of want in his stomach. His voice is dipping into gravel, “tastes good, too.” He kisses Steve deeply and Steve meets him with a soft sound.

Bucky pulls back swiftly, “Now—” he gives Steve a serious look, “your chin.” Steve laughs again and rests his head back against the couch. There’s nothing more natural than dropping a trail of kisses to pick up again later. 

“It’s strong. It says ‘I fight for my country’.” Bucky cups Steve’s jaw with his hand, “A hero’s chin.” Something serious passes over Steve’s eyes. 

“Your neck—”

“You missed my ears.” A grin.

“You’re right.” A bigger grin. Bucky catches Steve’s earlobe between two fingers, “Your ears,” Bucky blinks contemplatively. “You grew into them,” he teases. 

He pulls his hand away, as if to move on, and Steve catches his wrist, “what else?”

Bucky smiles, he loves the teasing push and pull, particularly now that Steve is easing into it more. “Hmm, what else?” Bucky leans in, lips on Steve’s ear and hums again. Steve’s head tips into the touch. He murmurs, voice low so it vibrates, lips brushing over Steve’s skin, “What else do I like about them?” Bucky hums sounds that end with question marks as he kisses down Steve’s ear, nips at his earlobe. Steve’s chest is catching on breathless sounds when Bucky finally leans back, shaking his head, “yeah I don’t know.” He gives Steve a helpless shrug, “they’re just—” he shrugs again, eyebrows raised, “just nice ears. Can’t think of anything else.”

Steve shakes his head through a knowing smile. Bucky continues down his body. He tells Steve about the his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his chest. He tells him how good they look with clothes on and how unbelievably good they look with clothes off. He tells him how he likes the smooth skin, offers to wax his chest so they’ll match, which gets Steve laughing again. He tells Steve about the way his skin flushes. He tells him about the muscles and creases and tender spots he can’t help but touch every chance he gets.

Bucky works his way lower and lower, complimenting the cut of each muscle group on his way down Steve’s body. He pauses at Steve’s navel and trails his fingertips down to the waistband of his trousers, “This is—” he pauses to take in the sensation, “a favorite part.”

“Why’s that?” Steve’s eyes are darkening.

Bucky searches for words for a long moment, stroking soft lines over Steve’s stomach, before he shakes his head, “I just— I don’t know. I mean, it looks great, feels great.” Bucky looks up at him, “but I think— I just like that I get to touch.” Bucky kisses him and pushes three fingertips just under the fabric of his jeans at the same time. Steve’s stomach jumps and he groans.

Bucky pulls back and rotates his hand. He tugs at the waistband, “take these off.”

It takes under a second for Steve to process the request, hesitate, dismiss the hesitation, and start unbuttoning his fly. Lusts growls, unexpectedly strong, at the sight of Steve unzipping his pants. Steve shoves his pants down his thighs, underwear still in place, and Bucky tugs the denim the rest of the way off his legs.

Bucky gets off the couch and kneels on the floor in front of him. Steve’s cock twitches visibly, and Bucky feels a trill of pride that the mere sight of him on his knees has that power over Steve. But this is all about feeling out Steve’s insecurities while his guard is down. So as much as Bucky would like to tug down his underwear and breathe over Steve’s cock until he’s about to lose his mind, he reaches for Steve’s toes instead.

“Good toes,” Bucky’s voice gives away his line of thought and Steve laughs. Bucky clears his throat and Steve laughs harder. _What a strange game this is._ Bucky looks up, corners of his mouth curling. _But Steve is so happy._

“Strong feet. Nice shape,” he runs his fingers up the tendons, “Great ankles.”

“Great, huh?” Steve sounds nearly delirious.

“Yeah.” Bucky takes an ankle in each hand on squeezes gently. Steve’s cock twitches again but Bucky keeps his eyes on Steve’s face. Steve’s flush deepens. They stare at each other for a moment, Steve’s flushed, aroused body laid out between them.

“Great calves, too. They look—” Bucky shakes his head, “unreasonably good, when you have boots on.”

Bucky slides his hands up to Steve’s knees, “Now, your knees, don’t get all the attention they deserve.” Steve cocks an eyebrow, his mind is clearly elsewhere and he’s given up trying to steady his voice. Bucky talks to stretch this out, slow down his journey up Steve’s legs. “Yeah, there’s just,” Bucky waves his hands at Steve’s lower body, “a lot going on down here, it’s easy to miss the details.” Bucky’s thumbs seek out the dimples just on the inside of Steve’s kneecaps, “like these. Not everyone has these, you know that?” 

Bucky kisses each dimple, “I like the way the backs of your knees sweat when you’re nervous.”

“Wha—” Steve chokes on the word.

Bucky gives him a significant nod and says nothing more. “And I like your thighs. I really like your thighs.” He digs his fingers in and runs them slowly up Steve’s legs. He pauses about an inch before the hem of his underwear and trails his nose and lips, whisper touch, up the same path. Steve shudders quietly and when Bucky pulls back he can see that Steve is fully hard, cock pushed to one side under the thin fabric. 

Bucky stands, knees cracking, and eases himself into Steve’s lap. Steve’s hands come to Bucky’s hips and the grip in his fingertips says he’s pretty far gone. Bucky runs his fingers up Steve’s cock, just once, just light pressure, and feels the mess of want in his body slosh when Steve’s hips buck under him.

Bucky braces his hands on the back of the couch, swallows, and murmurs, “Guess I’m not really,” Bucky clears his throat, “qualified to talk about the rest of you.”

“Yeah,” Steve rolls his hips again, looking amused and shameless, “guess you’ll have to get back to me.”

 

* * *

 

Openness brings openness. It blows through, opening every door in your house, ruffling papers onto the floor, tangling curtains.

Bucky is sitting on the windowsill. He looks up to where Steve sits on their mattresses. “Hey, I’m hungry,” Bucky waits for Steve to look up, “Are you hungry?” 

Steve stands up quickly and walks straight toward him. He reaches Bucky with outstretched arms and lifts him straight off the sill, one arm around his back, one under his knees. All Bucky manages is, “whoa,” before Steve sets him down on the kitchen counter.

“Are you—” Bucky starts, but Steve is leaning in, right in his face. Steve’s breathing is a little uneven and his eyes are flicking over Bucky’s face. He slides his hands up Bucky’s thighs, around to his ass, and pulls him forward, splaying Bucky’s legs and pressing their bodies together.

Surprise whisks the thought away and it takes Bucky a second to find the thread again, “Are you hungry?”

“Are you?” Steve’s voice is rough.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m hungry.”

Steve hasn’t kissed him, but he looks like he’s dying to.

“Wow,” Bucky shakes his head a little, a pleasant sort of confused, “What—”

“You never say,” Steve finally kisses him, and kisses him again, “when you’re hungry.”

Bucky blinks, “Oh.” Steve muffles the end of the sound with another kiss. 

 

* * *

 

That evening, Fury calls and Steve says no.

Night comes and they don’t turn the lights on. They’re side-by-side on their stomachs, spread out across their makeshift bed, watching a movie on Steve’s laptop. The first flash comes from the window and barely catches Bucky’s eye. It’s not rare to see jets and helicopters making their way over their patch of sky. But the second flash comes from the kitchen and Bucky tenses. Steve must feel it because he immediately reaches to shut the laptop. Without its glow, Bucky’s eyes adjust to the dark. The third flash comes from the left corner of his peripheral vision. He stands as Steve says, “lightning bug.”

Steve stands as well and they shuffle around their apartment, following its rhythmic flashes. A beat passes where a flash should have been. And then another. Bucky looks toward the window, wondering if it flew out again, right when Steve says, “it’s on your arm.”

Bucky looks down to see the bug resting on one of the plates of his left forearm. It flashes and the tiny light reflects off the metal in a fuzzy halo. 

Steve approaches slowly and they watch the firefly together. Steve reaches out and strokes the underside of Bucky’s left upper arm. The night breeze whips through the house and it rocks Bucky more than it rocks the small creature with wings. 

Anxiety is the panic of being in a too small space when that space is your body. It doesn’t visit as often these days, and when it does, it doesn’t stay long. It starts with the clench of your chest. You’d think you could just breathe it out, force away the tension by displacing it with air, but it doesn’t seem to work that way. Lungs contract until your head goes light. Everything tightens like it will never release again and you hold your breath. 

First, convince yourself to exhale. It feels like a one-way vise but experience says your chest won’t get any tighter than this. Then breathe and track the breaths. Feel out the clench with gentle hands. Listen to your body and wait. It gets worse before it gets better, like strings are tied to your shoulders, pulling them in, straining against your bones to fold you in on yourself. You need to know how it feels so you’ll know what to listen for the next time around. 

Wait and listen, be patient. 

Your lungs are first to lessen their grip. The clench eases and lets loose its cords. Roll your shoulders back and lift your head.

Take shelter in his arms. The storms don’t shake you like they used to. No use being angry at the sky for darkening in front of your sun or the rain for washing away your fire pit. It can come as long as it goes again. 

 

* * *

 

“How are you so good at this?” That question had to come eventually, though Bucky was expecting something more like “What do you remember?” or “What have you done before?” or even, “What do you like?” They’re all openings to make the same point, one Steve has needed to hear for a while. 

“I just do what feels good.”

“Do you remember—” Steve gestures through the air, stumbling over his words endearingly, “Do you remember sex?”

“No.” Bucky fights back his smile. Steve needs to know he’s serious, “I told you, I don’t remember anything I didn’t do with you.”

Steve nods. His eyes are dark with bigger questions. “How do you know what feels good?”

“I try it.”

Bucky waits and Steve waits and a familiar, expectant silence settles. They’re getting better at wading into unknowns without a lifeline. No joke to shrug it off, no excuse to quickly end the conversation.

Bucky searches around for words to describe a wordless process, “I try something and take it from there. Take one step at a time. If I like it,” Bucky leans a little closer, “and if you like it, then the next step is pretty obvious.”

Steve listens and holds still.

“You don’t have to take it right away,” Bucky slides his hand up Steve’s bare ribs. He’s managed to get Steve in his underwear again, with Steve kneeling over Bucky’s lap this time. “Don’t know why I’m telling you that, though. You’re already a champ at the whole ‘not right away’ thing.”

A smile cracks up one side of Steve’s mouth.

Bucky keeps talking. He doesn’t mind it and hearing his rambling thoughts seems to calm Steve. “There are a lot of ways to, uh— test things out, right?”

Bucky grins, can’t help himself, “so just looking at us right now,” Bucky gestures at Steve’s body over his own. Steve’s eyes fall to his bare legs resting on Bucky’s trousers. “I can think of a lot of next steps.” Bucky manages to keep his voice steady despite the rush of blood to his cock.

He lifts a hand to Steve’s neck to tug him down, “So maybe I’ll test out one of those ideas,” Bucky pulls him into a kiss and places his other hand on Steve’s thigh. He feels Steve respond to his touch, a tiny huff of breath through his nose. Bucky breaks the kiss and whispers, “just a little,” his hand drifts up Steve’s inner thigh and lightly cups his balls, “just enough,” he lets his fingers trail up the length of Steve’s cock. Steve exhales in a rush and pushes Bucky’s head with his own. Bucky’s voice finishes the thought, shaky around the vowels, “just enough to see if you like it.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a 7-11 at the corner of their block. They buy flavored coffee, packaged hard-boiled eggs, and candy they’ve never had before. Today it’s Nerds and Juicy Fruit. They play a favorite game, describing color to a blind man, putting words to a taste they’ve never known before this moment. 

They sit on the curb right outside the store. They’ve found that very few people recognize Steve when he’s sitting on ground. A loophole that really shouldn’t work, but it’s served them well so far. Steve goes first. He unwraps a stick of Juicy Fruit and folds it into his mouth. 

He chews twice and his eyebrows shoot up, “Wow.” 

Bucky’s already grinning, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods emphatically.

“So?”

“It’s uh— wow, it kind of changes,” Steve chews a moment longer and Bucky snickers. The moment blows away from him and drifts up on the wind. His chest is weightless and full. Happiness is bigger than you are. Forget the ground and float. Euphoria is the dusky light through the city haze; it says you have all the time in the world.

“So it’s really sweet,” Steve turns to face him and blinks at the look in Bucky’s eyes, “but it’s got a surprising twang. It really is fruity, but not like any fruit you’ve ever had. It’s like fruit from a cartoon.” Steve nods and hands Bucky the pack of gum, “That’s what I’m going with: fruit cartoon.”

Bucky’s smile hasn’t faded so he widens it a bit in reply. He tucks the gum into his jacket pocket and rips the top of the Nerds’ box neatly off with his finger and thumb. He tips about ten of the bright rocks into his palm and tosses them into his mouth.

The first shock of sweet makes his eyebrows shoot up and nose scrunch. Steve laughs. Bucky bites into one of them and his brain short circuits.

“What?!” he asks the box in his hand incredulously, then looks up at Steve, “Fuck— what?” 

Steve is laughing hard now, he claps his hands together and his chest is shaking. “Come on,” Steve manages around a hiccuping laugh, “tell me.”

“I can’t.” Bucky shakes his head, mouth puckered, and raises his arms in bewilderment, “There are no words, Steve. It’s like an explosion of what-the-fuck right in your mouth.” Steve’s head tips back and his laugh is loud and unguarded. 

Bucky can’t help but laugh, too. “Here.” He eats another small handful and hands the box to Steve.

Steve looks back at him, wiping his eyes. He reaches out, straight past the box, and grabs the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky only realizes what’s happening as Steve’s lips meet his. His mouth is soft with surprise and opens easily for Steve’s tongue. Steve kisses him deeply. A sudden, wet intrusion, and Bucky gasps around a sound too eager for a public place. Steve pulls back just far enough for their eyes to meet. He crunches a few of the candies in his teeth and nods with a wry smile, “Yeah, wow, that’s uh—” his eyes are on Bucky’s lips, “that’s—”

Bucky cuts him off with a kiss and Steve’s hand tightens on his neck to keep him close. 

The sun sets and the city hums. They kiss to the sound of buses’ hydraulic hiss and car stereos blasting at red lights. This isn’t your city. It doesn’t have to be. You don’t need anyone anymore. Don’t need the rest of the world. Just an empty room, a bare mattress, and your man.

 

* * *

 

Bucky wakes up with Steve’s hand between his legs. He’s panting and Steve’s panting and they’re both hard. Steve’s cock is rocking in an irregular pulse against Bucky’s leg.

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is sleep-scratchy. Steve’s hand tightens on his crotch and Bucky chokes off a moan, “Steve.” He prods Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve wakes with a, “hmm?” There’s a pause and he pulls back, “oh— sorry. I, uh— sorry Buck.”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Bucky turns on his side to face him in the dark, “you can keep going if you want,” the words lilt with a touch of humor to give Steve an out, “I just want you to be awake if you’re— you know,” Bucky kisses the tip of his nose, “trying things out.”

Steve laughs and Bucky lifts his leg over Steve’s to nudge him closer. He prods Steve with his heel until they’re pressed flush from toes to chests, with Bucky’s thigh resting on top of Steve’s hip.

 

* * *

 

Steve wants to push and pull and grab and pin; it’s obvious. But he’s so careful about it. He lifts most of the time, because picking Bucky up has never made him flinch. Steve still pins him when he can’t help it. When he’s so far gone with love and lust and want that Bucky can feel it leeching through his clothes. He always gets his hand behind Bucky’s head to cushion the blow.

Bucky feels the same tug. If he’s not pinned, he’s pinning. And when lust is lava in his legs he lets his body talk to Steve. Kissing on the couch, straddling Steve’s lap. Too hot, too hungry. One hand on Steve’s shoulder, one on his ribs. Grip tight for a second and grind down hard. Moan into his mouth. Bucky releases him but Steve groans a reply that will echo in Bucky’s mind the next time he comes in the shower with his fist in his mouth. 

Grinding slowly becomes thrusting. It’s embarrassing, really, how badly you want it. You know what to do, had plenty of time to think about it, and you’re showing him the motions with all your clothes on. _Come on. Touch me like this. Get me off._ Steve looks at you like he can’t believe the face you’re making. Like he can’t believe he could make you feel this way. _Come on Steve, it can be even better._

It’s much too easy to get turned on. Innocuous things set you off like watching him or watching him trying not to watch you. Hungry for touch. Touch is everything; you’ve decided. There is nothing better than touch. Hot water on sore muscles, ice cream on your tongue, wind through your hair, the backs of your eyelids over tired eyes, and his hands, wherever he wants to put them. _Just touch me._

 

* * *

 

Pushed up against the cabinets, Bucky’s shoulders against the wood grain, Steve on his knees. Bodies melted around their bones, like they can’t quite remember the tension that keeps them upright. Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s cock. Palm of his hand over the head, fingers reaching down the shaft. Time slows down. 

It’s not the first time he’s touched but it’s the first time his touch has just stayed. Bucky must have been expecting it to go somewhere. For some new pressure or stroke, some mind-blanking touch to tie his tongue. But Steve just holds still. Anticipation blooms into the most heady, intoxicating desire. It crackles up his spine and Bucky whimpers. Neither man moves.

It’s so possessive and _fucking hot. Steve—_ Bucky’s gaping at him, eyes shadowed by his furrowed brow, mouth dropping open. _Steve—_ his head tips back against the cabinets and lolls side to side, disbelieving. He keeps his hands at his sides and gives himself up.

Bucky’s cock gets hard so fast it aches. So sensitive he can feel the ridges of his trouser’s fly. Bucky knows Steve can feel it swell and twitch. Pleasure rushes through in another wave, hot with the flash of a familiar panic that reminds him he’s not in control. He’s so exposed. Everything feels vulnerable. The shaky rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his spine against the cabinets, the way his legs are bent and spread. Spread out like this just for Steve. Like he’s claiming you.

The thought pulls a sound from his throat. He bucks his hips and Steve rewards him with a little more pressure. Bucky looks down with pleading, lidded eyes to find Steve’s face. He’s looking at Bucky like he just discovered something amazing. Flushed with wide eyes, blown pupils. But he doesn’t move.

Bucky’s body is no longer taking requests, just a lake of warm water under his skin. So full, too full. Up to his throat with a pleasure that soaks into his nerves. Every impulse just swirling away into the swollen, sensitive murk.  

It’s like he’s not even doing it to turn you on. Just feeling, not groping. There’s no hint that anything more is coming. He holds still and Bucky holds still. Nothing happens but ragged breathing, rushing blood. Bucky’s body rages with pleasure and surprise and arousal. Gaping at each other with glassy eyes, watching your mind tell your body what it means, how it feels, instead of turning off your thoughts to let your body set the pace. Just sit here, hands on the kitchen tile, and let Steve give it to you. _Jesus_. There’s no rushing him. Beholden to his timeline, as you’ve always been.

Just sit here and be wanted. All he has to do is act like he owns this body. All you have to do is let him. 

“Fuck,” Bucky curses under his breath. Steve crowds in so Bucky is panting over his lips. Steve kisses him softly, much too softly, and Bucky cranes his neck to deepen it. Steve pulls back. He pauses a second, making Bucky wait because he can, because Bucky would wait for years and years. Steve closes the distance again and asks Bucky’s lips to open with the tip of his tongue. Steve finds Bucky’s tongue with his own and kisses him like that. Mouths open, just tongues, slipping, curling, searching, just touching. Gentle and restrained and impossibly filthy. Bucky moans. He pants into the wet heat. His whole face flushes, it feels feverishly hot and must be bright red. Little pinpricks of need cascading up his cheeks. Bucky can’t catch his breath. He starts rocking into Steve’s hand. He could come like this. 

Bucky turns his head and covers his eyes with his hand. He takes a deep, shaky breath. Steve laughs, sounding much too pleased.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it was you who got distracted by kisses and set a sandwich on fire, not Steve.

There’s turned on like watching him tug a shirt over his head in the morning. And then there’s turned on like when you’re struggling to make a sandwich after making out for hours. Turned on like you could have come three or four times by now. More turned on than anyone should be with their clothes on. So turned on that your blood has forsaken the rest of your body. It rushes straight from your hammering heart to your cock. Steve tells you things, asks questions, makes jokes, and you can’t say anything but “what” or “huh” and hear him muffle his laughter in your hair.

Underwear is a false barrier. It’s just cloth to dull the most delicious sensations. The longer you spend thinking about it, the stranger it seems, like saying a word over and over until it is just a sound. It seems its only purpose is to give him a hundred ways to tease you, and give you a thousand ways to ask him for more.

When your brain doesn’t have enough blood for inhibitions and you want to tell him every dirty thought you can piece together, the words catch in your throat. Everything you want to do to him, where you want his hands, how good he can feel— it dies on your lips. All you can do is moan _Steve_ —gasp a breath to moan again, into the skin of his shoulder— _Steve._

 

* * *

 

You cut loose your last name. He never uses it and you haven’t said it in months. No more Barnes, just Bucky. If they ever need it again, they can find it on a mossy gravestone in the cemetery for fallen soldiers. The one with nothing buried under the grass.

 

* * *

 

Bucky digs in his metal thumb and pushes it from heel to toe. That gets the reaction he’s looking for. Steve jumps a little and makes a surprised sound. They’re side-by-side on the couch with Steve’s feet in Bucky’s lap. Bucky shifts to face Steve and draws another stroke up the muscle. Steve groans.

Bucky’s shifts again, on his knees now. He crawls in, one leg between Steve’s, keeping his grip on Steve’s foot so his leg folds in toward his body. Bucky leans in and his hand searches for another sensitive spot on the back of Steve’s heel. His hair falls forward and he lets it land on Steve’s face. Bucky hovers close to hear every soft, pleased sound coming from his lips. He rubs a finger into either side of Steve’s ankle and nuzzles his jaw. His fingers follow now familiar paths around Steve’s foot, and come to curl around the outside edge, just below the joint of his smallest toe. 

Bucky tips his nose against Steve’s and digs his fingers in hard. Steve’s mouth drops open on a gasp and Bucky swoops in, dipping his tongue into Steve’s mouth. Steve moans and Bucky’s cock twitches at the way his tongue muffles the sound. 

“Buck,” Steve manages when Bucky gives him room to breathe. Bucky lifts himself up on straight arms over Steve’s face, “this feels like more than a foot rub.”

Bucky furrows his brow into a contemplative frown, “Yeah? Why do you say that?”

Steve opens his mouth just a little, thinks for a moment, and closes it in a smirk. Talking about it comes slowly, but it comes. 

Before you talk about it, you let him know with the sound of your voice. The way it wavers and breaks. You joke but the way your vowels stretch and shake is serious. It’s vulnerable so cover it up a little with brave words. He’s good at seeing through you.

“Do you ever jerk off after we do this?” Steve’s eyes are dark and curious.

“What do you think?” Bucky lets the last word close with a crooked smile. Steve’s face falters into that amazed look again so Bucky pushes him a bit further. He leans in and mumbles into the skin behind his ear, “Do you?”

“What do you think?” Steve is definitely sounding breathless. Even if every question is met with another question, you still get your answer. Steve’s not one to be caught out though, particularly not now that his quips are getting quicker, “Would you let me watch?”

Bucky catches the moan when it’s halfway out his throat and chops it into a rough laugh. He swallows and rolls his hips. _Big talk—_ “Would you be able to keep your hands to yourself?”

Steve is even quicker this time, ducking his head to whisper, “You could tie them down.”

Bucky can do nothing to temper his moan this time. Just a sound of unchecked want that makes Steve’s hands tighten on his hips.

 

* * *

 

“Steve, we don’t even own pillows.”

“What?”

“You realize that? For all the time we spend laying around on the bed, we don’t even own pillows.”

“Do we need pillows?”

“I don’t know. It’s more of a ‘should’ thing than a ‘need’ thing.”

“Well, we don’t have a real bed either. Or any furniture, other than the couch. Should we—”

“We need pillows.”

“Okay.”

They walk to Target, buy two pillows, and walk home.

 

* * *

 

How have you never thought of this before?

They’re on the couch and Bucky has worked Steve between his legs. Steve’s back to Bucky’s chest, Bucky has one hand on Steve’s head and the other arm across his ribs. He’s fucking Steve’s ear with his tongue, hot and dirty and fast, and losing it to the sounds Steve is making, “Bucky—ah—ha—Buck, god—Bu—cky—” he’s forgetting to breathe and his chest is starting to heave.

Steve arches back, pressing himself against Bucky and Bucky moves his hand from Steve’s ribs to his cock. He pushes down with the heel of his hand and bucks his hips into Steve’s ass at the same time. _Fuck, Steve, the things I want to do to you—_ becomes a hungry sound through his open mouth, into the folds of Steve’s ear.

Steve lets Bucky show him what he wants, all the friction that makes his hands shake, for another three breaths, then pulls his head away, “okay,” Steve swallows, “Bucky—jesus—”

Steve leans to one side and rolls out of Bucky’s lap. He makes a sound between a laugh and a groan and looks up at Bucky’s face. Bucky does nothing to pull himself back together. He knows his eyes are dark and mouth swollen. His legs are splayed around Steve’s remembered form and he knows the hard line of his cock is obvious under his trousers.

Steve’s legs are still tangled in his lap so Bucky draws a circle around one of Steve’s ankle bones with his thumb. He murmurs, “Whenever you want it.”

 

* * *

 

Steve sleeps with his fingers in Bucky’s hair. He’s not discrete about it. He combs out the tangles against Bucky’s pillow when he comes to bed after showering, then twines his fingers into the fragrant, damp warmth and stills. A loose grip that would fall open if Bucky turned his head, so he never does.

One night, Bucky waits for Steve’s hand to still and asks, “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you doing it for me? The going slow thing?”

Steve is quiet for a moment, “What do you mean?”

“I just—” Bucky pauses to translate a worry into a question, “Are you—” No, a question feels too accusatory. Bucky tries again, “I don’t want you to do it— to keep me here. I don’t know if— I don’t want you to feel like I’ll only stick around because I want—” Bucky gives himself a second of silence, “Are you afraid I’m going to run?”

“No,” Steve’s answer comes immediately. His grip tightens almost imperceptibly in Bucky’s hair, “No.” Steve shifts closer in the bed and says it again, softer, “No.” It feels like he’s saying no to the idea of Bucky ever leaving instead of answering the question.

When the nights get cooler and they sleep pressed together for warmth, Steve buries his face in Bucky’s hair instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!! Thanks for your patience! Work swallowed me whole but I have emerged victorious. :) And now I have some time off! All of my plans consist of writing fanfic like it’s my full-time job so… Hopefully I will have some more things for you to read very soon!
> 
> Bucky’s knees cracking is a little homage to Uncharted by DisappointMe. Go read it asap if you have not already!


	5. Blink Back the Vertigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Know what? It doesn’t matter. You know something for once. One drop in the bucket to tip the scales from questions to answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Soundtrack!
> 
> You & Me by Bassnectar  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ef_fYdTbavI
> 
> Crank it Louder by S3RL  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TbsdfWdstOU

Steve wakes up with Bucky on his chest. They fell asleep in a tangle last night and the hours of bare chests and body heat have melted them into a puddle. Steve moves before he’s fully awake. He turns onto his side and pulls Bucky’s loose body flush to his chest. Bucky wakes up with a sleepy sound and a deep inhale halfway through the movement. Steve’s arms encircle him, one hand on his back, one arm curled under the pillow so his hand rests on Bucky’s head. Steve tilts his chin up and pulls Bucky’s head into the nook of his neck. 

Bucky settles and a still moment passes. Then his voice drifts up, “Steve.” He sounds like he’s smiling. Bucky rustles and snuggles deeper, until his face is pressed to Steve’s throat. He gives Steve’s skin a long kiss and lays still.

Steve tightens the circle of his arms. _He’s so warm._ Bucky’s breathing begins to slow. Steve can smell his hair, see it waving loose over the pillow. The world stills. No movement but the rise and fall of their shoulders. Chests pushing together with each inhale, pressure so gentle. Bucky’s body sinks into the bed, slow as passing clouds, until he’s asleep again. 

This must be it. The moment you know. 

 _Know what?_ It doesn’t matter. You know something for once. One drop in the bucket to tip the scales from questions to answers.

Steve doesn’t sleep. He holds Bucky in his arms and an hour drifts by with no one to mark its passing.

 

* * *

 

Steve knocks, Bucky answers, and Steve opens the bathroom door. The room is thick with steam. Steve came looking for— came to get— _what was it?_ Steve’s eyes are on Bucky’s bare chest, sinking down. He must have had a good reason—his eyes hit the towel tucked low around Bucky’s hips—for coming in here.

Steve’s eyes jump back to Bucky’s face. He looks amused. Then his eyebrow quirks up and he looks expectant.

Bucky takes a couple steps closer, asking in a casual mumble, “Were you looking for something?”

“Yeah.”

“What was it?” Bucky’s just inches away.

“I can’t remember.”

Bucky snorts. His mouth splits into a grin and Steve has completely lost the thread of finding whatever was in the bathroom and picked up on a new thread that leads directly to kissing the smile from Bucky’s lips. A muffled voice in Steve’s mind lets him know that kissing Bucky with nothing but a towel on is simultaneously the best and worst idea he has ever had.

Steve hesitates, but his body is done with the idea of waiting. He’s getting hot and shaky again. His feeble brakes are a poor match for Bucky’s gravity. Steve looks down and seeing Bucky’s body so close just makes it worse. He reaches out and slides his fingers up Bucky’s stomach to his chest. He’s wet and hot from the shower. Steve’s breathing falls out of rhythm even faster than Bucky’s. 

Steve leans in, watching Bucky’s eyes blur a little as his hand wanders. He lets their noses touch, floating somewhere between thinking about kissing him and seeing if it’s possible to resist. His hand drifts lower until it’s pressed flat to Bucky’s stomach, fingers pointing down. Steve lets his fingertips follow the line of soft hairs that leads under the towel. 

For everything that Bucky has shown him, the play of light and shadow in Bucky’s eyes at this moment show a greater vulnerability than any word or gesture ever could. Steve’s fingertips hit the edge of the towel and Bucky’s mouth falls open a little. He pushes under the cloth and Bucky’s brows knit. Bucky’s breathing is picking up and Steve can feel his body heave in the palm of his hand.

This heady upending is quickly becoming a favorite way to unsteady yourselves. Bucky is so quick to offer himself up to you and you are so quick to whisk his body to a new height. Blink back the vertigo and swallow.

Bucky keeps his arms at his sides and Steve pushes lower. His middle finger stops at the base of Bucky’s cock. Bucky’s eyes roll up for a second and return to Steve’s. Steve lets his fingers part into a V, two fingers reaching down on either side of Bucky’s cock. His fingers are carrying more pressure now because he can’t stop himself. Bucky makes a sound like he’s trying very hard not to make a sound.

The moment Bucky starts to lose his grip always feels unreal. Can you really make him feel that good? Can your inexperienced hands really give him what he wants? Steve is so hard it’s distracting and his cock jerks at the abrupt realization that his hand is fully under the towel, terry cloth against the joint of his wrist.

Without warning, the towel comes loose and falls to the floor. Something about the sudden movement, the rush of cool air over the back of his hand, makes Steve pull away.

Bucky doesn’t move and an awkward pause steps in. Steve’s eyes are on the shower tile, the sink, the counter, anywhere but the naked man in front of him. Steve reaches off to the side to grab another towel. He holds it out for Bucky to take but Bucky’s hands stay at his sides.

He stands still in front of Steve. Naked and dripping. Steve knows if he looked down he’d see Bucky’s cock swollen and full. Steve finally meets his eyes. He’s smiling. At least he’s smiling.

Steve steps closer to reach behind Bucky’s back. He catches the towel in his other hand and wraps it around Bucky’s hips. Steve takes his time tucking in the end, backs of his fingers pressed to Bucky’s skin.

Steve steps back. Bucky still hasn’t moved. _If you keep this up much longer he might start to think you don’t want him._

“Thanks.” Bucky’s voice is rough. His eyes are shadowed and his smile has slackened. Loose lips casting shadows that asked to be kissed. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky is sitting cross-legged on the bed, re-threading his shoelaces. One of them had been fraying around a sharp eyelet in his boots. Bucky smoothed the metal of the eyelet back into place with his metal thumb, like he was smoothing a wrinkle in a shirt. Steve bought him work boot shoelaces to replace the worn pair.

Bucky draws the first lace through the bottom two eyelets and holds up the ends to center the lace. He drops one end and threads the other across the shoe. He looks up, “I love you.”

Steve blinks. His shoulders jump and his face falters. Bucky is always catching him off guard like that. Steve can’t tell if he does it specifically to surprise him, or if it just occurs to Bucky to tell Steve he loves him when they’re doing the dishes, standing in line at the drug store, brushing their teeth. 

Steve’s the one who says it when he’s kissing up Bucky’s neck. When Bucky’s in his lap and pulling at his clothes. Steve’s the one who gasps it, who moans it.

It’s a strange, unsynchronized conversation. A thread one begins and the other ties up hours later. They don’t say it like a question that demands an answer. Or like half of a commitment that demands its pair to be true. 

Each profession stands alone. You acknowledge, in a very small way, that the way he loves you is not the same as the way you love him. Allow each other your differences and take what the other has to give. 

Steve holds Bucky’s eyes until he returns his attention to the shoelace.

 

* * *

 

Steve pushes his luck. He strays from waiting to wanting to teasing to something else, something deeper. Bucky’s too far gone for it to be playful. The longer you make him wait the more his eyes clear. Trust and want. No room for anything else.

Steve pushes his luck with quick hands and a hungry mouth. He slams into Bucky’s body. Bucky catches his head, kissing back with desperate sounds. Zero to sixty in three seconds. Hands under his ass, Steve lifts him effortlessly and sends them both crashing to the bed. Bucky’s legs around his waist, ankles locked behind his back. Steve braces himself on his elbows and rocks into him, grinding his cock against Bucky’s. Thrusting so hard their bodies are shifting on the mattress. Bucky’s legs tighten. _God the sounds he’s making._

Steve pulls back all at once. Sitting back, lifting his arms, breaking Bucky’s embrace. Bucky’s too quick for that. He catches Steve’s wrists with a tight grip. They freeze, Bucky holding both of Steve’s arms still in the space between them. He’s breathing hard through his nose and looking up at Steve with a look that flits between _please_ and _seriously?_  

Steve looks down at him and waits. It’s funny in a distant way. If Bucky unzipped his trousers right now and jerked off on their bed Steve would do nothing to stop him. He’d watch. Let Bucky see what it did to him. But that’s not what he wants. He wants you. So he’ll have to wait. They hold still until Bucky releases his wrists. Steve lays his head down on Bucky’s chest.

Bucky swallows like he’s going to say something but no words come.

 

* * *

 

Two tall men, too built for civilian lives, wandering the farmer’s market. Every few steps their hands brush and one will catch the others’ fingers for a moment.

Steve pulls Bucky to stop in front of a booth with watermelons. Must be the last of the season. Steve buys one with cash and tucks it under his arm. Bucky steers them away from the market and into the adjacent park. He bee-lines for a bench and sits. Steve sits next to him, placing the watermelon on the far end. He turns to see Bucky gesturing with an outstretched hand, fingers flicking in. Steve looks at his hand, back at Bucky’s face, and then realizes he’s asking for the melon. Steve scoops it up and hands it to Bucky.

Bucky produces a switchblade and flips it open. He carves cleanly through the center of the watermelon, rotating the fruit in one hand. He splits the fruit, setting half in his lap and handing the other half to Steve. 

“Oh, are we eating this now?” Steve’s question goes unanswered.

Steve settles the melon half on his legs while Bucky pulls a second knife from inside his jacket. He flips open the blade and hands it, handle first, to Steve.

Bucky slides the knife in at a gentle angle and pivots it around in a circle. He removes the knife, stabs the center of the circle, and pulls out a perfect pyramid of red fruit. Steve tries the same technique. _Wow, he keeps these things incredibly sharp._ Bucky has given him a knife with a thinner blade, which makes it much easier. Steve’s pyramids are lopsided and missing the last inch or so of their peaks. 

The wind rustles the leaves above, already starting to dry and brown. They eat quietly. Steve won’t ask Bucky for tips but Bucky finds ways to give them anyway. He waits until Steve is chewing to carve out his next bite. He pushes in the knife and steers it in a circle with a single finger so Steve can see how he keeps outward pressure to anchor the knife’s tip in the fruit. Steve silently tries it out and pulls out a bite with a perfect tip. Bucky says nothing. Doesn’t need to.

Bucky cleans out the center of his half and starts carving the last slivers of fruit from the rind, tipping his head back, and letting them slip straight off the blade into his mouth.

“This is— surprisingly filling,” Steve says to the rind in his lap.

Bucky chuckles. He lifts his half to drink the juice from its bowl.

 

* * *

 

Bucky has just finished installing perimeter alarms on the roof. He laid the wire under the ledge and caulked over it to hide any trace. Bucky spent another couple of hours in the sun calibrating it so their resident pigeons wouldn’t trigger it.

Steve hears Bucky’s footsteps on the metal fire escape and puts down his newspaper. He only takes the fire escape because Steve has asked him to. Steve caught him taking his ‘shortcut’ once, a leap straight off the roof to land in their apartment window, boots on the ledge, fingers curled in around the window frame, and promptly banned it. For the sake of the meticulously restored pre-war window frame, he said. “You know I could drop all the way to the street and I’d be fine,” Bucky said.

Bucky comes through the window as Steve is washing the newsprint from his hands in the kitchen sink. Bucky turns toward their bedroom, probably headed to take a shower. He strips off his shirt with one arm and lets it fall to the floor. Steve runs because Bucky is too quick. Five quick strides and he’s right behind him. Bucky spins and Steve lets his momentum carry both of them into the closed door behind Bucky. They hit the door and something cracks. Steve’s mouth is already on Bucky’s; the sound doesn’t even reach his ears. Just when Steve settles against him, hands finding either side of his face, Bucky shoves him off. Steve trips backward a step, chest feeling strange where Bucky’s hands had pushed.

Bucky walks away before Steve can make sense of what has happened, look him in the eye, ask a question. Steve is still for a moment, heart shrinking in confusion, then turns to see where Bucky has gone.

Bucky sits heavily on the couch. A pause. He slouches, letting his legs rest open, and lifts both his arms over his head, resting his forearms on the back of the couch. He looks up at Steve with shadowed eyes that are almost challenging, as if to say— _I won’t even touch you._ He looks so good like this, black boots, black pants, bare chest, hair sticking to his skin with sweat. Steve walks over and immediately straddles his lap.

It’s so familiar it’s nearly automatic. Hands on his ribs, wrists together, fingers reaching toward his sides, so you can feel every little hitch and rush of breath. Lean in to kiss him, pause when your noses touch. Nothing gets him undone faster than anticipation. Steve takes his time, slowing to an excruciating pace. He kisses Bucky so slowly, each second stretches longer than the last. Time snapping back into place when your lips part. Bucky doesn’t fight it. He melts. You can almost track pleasure on its way through his body. The way his arms flex, hands gripping the couch back to keep them still. The way he spreads his legs to nudge you forward, a little further into his lap. The sounds he lets slip over your tongue.

He will take whatever you offer. Trust is a backdrop until you make it a game. Until you choose to test it, draw taught the lines. Until you chase your own reassurances in the way he still won’t put words to his wanting. He still won’t ask you for more. And so in some backward way you ask— _will you follow me?_

He says nothing and his silence says— _of course._

Steve drifts lower, mouthing at Bucky’s jaw. Quick hands find his belt buckle and take their time pulling it undone. Bucky is panting over his cheek. The way he holds his breath for a fraction of a second on each exhale tells Steve the tugs on his trousers are telegraphing straight through his swollen cock. Steve pauses to palm Bucky through his pants. He’s hard, he’s already so hard. Bucky moans. It’s a helpless, incredulous sound that pushes his head back into the couch cushion. His eyes press shut and mouth falls open. 

It shouldn’t be so surprising. Your crooked, looping path through pleasure has already found a dozen cliffs to send him over. As has always been the case, Bucky follows you. Even when there are clearer, quicker, cleaner paths. You lead, he follows, and you tumble forward into fields that feel entirely unexplored.

Steve pushes down with the palm of his hand then pulls up so his fingers drag. He’s sitting so close that the back of his hand rubs against his own crotch as he strokes Bucky. 

Steve kisses him, sloppy and reaching, as he pulls Bucky’s belt out of its loops. He undoes the button at the top of his fly and feels Bucky’s arms flex on either side of his head. Steve pulls down the zipper and pushes the fabric apart. The head of Bucky’s cock is lifting, peaking his underwear away from his body. Steve’s fingertips trace up the stretched fabric to the waistband. He looks up at Bucky’s face, pauses— _jesus, his eyes are so dark_ —and pulls the cloth down. Bucky’s cock lifts free and bounces once in a way that makes both of their brows knit. Steve holds his eyes and brings him thumb to his mouth. He sucks it down to the lowest joint and drops it between them. He strokes one wet line, from the base of Bucky’s cock to the tip. Bucky’s legs jolt and his arms flex so hard the veins stand up. Without releasing his grip on the couch, Bucky buries his face in his bent elbow. His open mouth is panting out whimpers and groans. The sounds are so raw that Steve can’t help but answer them with little murmurs and groans of his own. Suddenly, a conversation. Steve kisses his collarbone, Bucky breathes around a sound that begs for more, Steve answers with a little huff, a promise. Steve’s open mouth lets loose words he didn’t know were waiting to be spoken, “Buck you look so good, you sound so good,” kissing up his throat, “Bucky— god. What did I do to deserve you like this?” nipping at his ear, “Wish I could tell you how it feels, doing this to you,” mouthing at his temple, breathing in his hair, “You’re incredible.” 

Steve swipes his wet thumb over one of Bucky’s nipples. Bucky’s groan stretches into something like, “Steve” and his cock jerks. _That’s enough._

Steve sits back a bit. Bucky opens his bleary eyes. Heaving chests and heavy breathing. Steve swallows, “Bucky?”

Bucky watches him and waits. Doesn’t make a sound in reply.

“What do you want for dinner?”

A moment of pure disbelief passes. Bucky stares at him. His eyes flit over Steve’s face before returning to his eyes. Bucky draws a deep breath. He releases the back of the couch and brings his hands to his face. He scrubs once, drops his hands and stares up at the ceiling. A long minute passes. Finally, he says, “Whatever you’re making.”

Steve nods, face carefully neutral. He stands and walks over to the oven. Turns the knob to 450 degrees and walks back to the couch. Bucky is staring at him. Splayed on the couch with his cock still hard and lifting off his stomach, pants bunched around his thighs. There’s something in the way he’s sitting that says he’s still waiting but his face is closed to something much harder.

Steve walks back to him and straddles his lap again. Bucky’s face barely has time to clear to expectation before Steve has his hand on Bucky’s cock. Firm grip, stroke once down to the base and back up. Bucky jumps and chokes around, “ah—”

Steve interrupts him, “Okay good, because I was going to make—” Bucky’s hand is rough on the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss to smother the words. Steve smiles into it and Bucky shakes his head a little. Steve strokes him, confident and tight, and revels in the immediacy of this. How quick and powerful Bucky’s response is. Four strokes and Bucky’s body is tensing. His hips buck into Steve’s hand and he’s gasping into his kisses. Steve pauses and releases his hold, he tugs at Bucky’s trousers, “take these off.”

Bucky lifts his hips and Steve stands to pull them off. He strips off his own shirt and shucks his pants and underwear in two quick motions. Bucky moans like he can’t believe his eyes. His hand flies to his cock, circles the base, and squeezes.

Steve sits down next to Bucky, he reaches out to pull Bucky into his lap and realizes his hands are trembling. Bucky comes easily, his body a familiar combination of loose legs and tense arms, a bundle of nerves so aroused his body can’t coordinate anything properly.

“Steve,” Bucky’s slurring, hand still tight around the base of his cock, “I swear to god, if you touch me I’m gonna come.”

Steve’s body tries to laugh but the sound is rough and aroused, “So touch yourself,” Steve settles Bucky’s hips against his, trapping his cock against his stomach with the most amazing pressure, “Show me what you like.”

Bucky brings his right hand to his mouth, licking from palm to fingertips, and grabs for Steve’s hand with the other. He brings his slick hand back to his cock, slipping his fist backhanded over the head and down the shaft. Bucky takes Steve’s hand to his inner thigh and Steve mirrors the touch with his other hand. Bucky’s groans are so deep it sounds like he’s underwater. 

Bucky jerks himself slowly, coaxing Steve’s hand up his thigh, over his stomach, around his ribs. Steve pauses to hold him tight, arms wrapped around his ribcage. Bucky closes off a hiccuping moan into a hum and mumbles, “I can feel your heart beat.”

Steve hums in reply and lifts his hips a little. Bucky’s body shifts like liquid and drags a lick of friction over Steve’s cock. Steve lets his hands wander wherever Bucky pulls them and mouths wetly at the base of his neck. Abruptly, Bucky releases Steve’s hand and his metal fingers land on Steve’s lips. Steve opens his mouth and Bucky pushes two fingers inside.

Steve responds immediately, sucking his fingers deeper, slipping his tongue along the metal pads. Bucky’s panting picks up overwhelmed sounds at the edges. They tumble loose from their minds’ restraints, bodies arching and tensing, accelerating. Steve pushes his tongue into the sensitive webbing between Bucky’s fingers and grips each of Bucky’s thighs. Bucky pushes his head against Steve’s, gasps becoming exclamations, “Ste—ve—ha—ha—” Bucky’s spine curves in and forces the air from his lungs in an exquisite sound, like he’s been wrung dry. Steve groans in reply, over Bucky’s fingers. Come spurts, landing across Bucky’s chest. His loosening fist strokes his cock a few more times, bringing another, smaller burst of come from the tip.

Steve sucks Bucky’s fingers as he comes down. Bucky swallows, draws a breath, and swallows again. Steve lets his fingers slip loose and kisses Bucky’s temple. Half a dozen questions sit on his tongue— _how was that? feel good? you like that?—_ but he tucks them away. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s ribs and holds him. They lay in a naked heap as Bucky’s breathing slows. 

Steve waits for it to settle into a rhythm so slow he might be asleep before shifting Bucky out of his lap. Steve stands and Bucky reaches for him with a sleep-slurred murmur. Steve hushes him with a hand smoothed across his hair and a murmur of his own, “shh, let me take care of you.”

He cleans Bucky off with a wet washcloth and carries him to the bed. Bucky snickers at that, tips his smile against Steve’s chest when Steve lifts him from the couch, but says nothing. Steve wraps him up in a sheet and presses himself to Bucky’s back. His own erection settles to an over-sensitive cock before fading completely. He falls asleep with his nose in Bucky’s hair.

 

* * *

 

As you expected, the first taste snips off your self-imposed blindfold and collar. Steve barely makes it through breakfast the next day. Hiding his hard on in the sheets, letting his eyes crawl and his mind spin. Bucky’s still chewing his last bite when Steve stands, walks over to the stove, and comes right back with the olive oil.

“Hey,” Steve’s kneeling, crawling forward on the bed, pushing Bucky’s shoulders back.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice carries the faintest tremor of surprise over the thick sound of sudden want.

Steve slicks his hand and asks Bucky, with his face already halfway to a flush, “Can I?”

Bucky nods, mouth falling open. There is a time for subtlety, for stretching and waiting and building, but that time is not now. Steve takes Bucky’s soft cock in hand and he’s already planning the next time he’ll make him come, already lining up a day of making him shake and groan like he did last night. Steve pushes back the foreskin and runs his thumb along the head’s ridge.

Steve groans at the way Bucky gasps. He noses at the underside of Bucky’s jaw and lets his fingers draw the blood to Bucky’s cock. Steve’s sliding his fingers down the underside of the shaft, imagining how it’ll feel when he does it with his tongue, when Bucky’s uneven voice whispers, “Don’t stop.”

Steve laughs, “I’m not going—”

Bucky cuts him off, hand behind Steve’s neck, “Steve, please—” he groans as Steve grips a little tighter, “Please— don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Steve hushes him, fingers on his lips, “Bucky. Buck, I’m not going to,” Steve kisses his cheek, “I won’t stop.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky finally drags them out of the house in the early afternoon. They walk to a skate shop a couple of blocks away and Bucky buys two boards. Or, Steve buys them, because Bucky doesn’t carry cash.

Standing at the register, counting out bills when Bucky closes his fingers around Steve’s hip and draws them into a fist. Steve pauses, obediently tipping his head, and they kiss. Out in public, right in front of the cashier. Bucky doesn’t hold him there as long as he could have but he isn’t in a rush.

Outside the shop, Bucky drops both boards, runs and jumps onto one. He pushes off the ground to get it rolling and takes off down the sidewalk. He throws a cocky grin over his shoulder that makes Steve’s heart forget its purpose. Steve runs and lands on the other board. He pushes off the ground twice and by then he’s got the hang of it. He follows Bucky’s lead, leaning to change direction, dragging his foot to slow down. Bucky leads them onto industrial streets and skates out into the road. There are few cars at this time of day and they share the pavement with a handful of cyclists.

“How do you feel about waves?” Bucky shouts over the sound of wheels on asphalt.

“Like, in the ocean? Uh— they’re okay.”

“Alright. Good. We’re going surfing.”

Steve laughs. He looks over at Bucky. His hair is whipping in the wind, buildings blurring behind his body in motion. The evening sun lights up his eyes. There was a joke taking shape in Steve’s mind but he has nothing now. Just, “Okay.”

Bucky smiles and keeps his eyes on the road ahead of them. 

 

* * *

 

Hot and slick and _holy shit._ You thought you were so level-headed. You thought you could set the pace. But it’s the third time today and his chest is already flushed. He’s dying to get his hands on you and won’t stop groping you through your jeans.

Clothes hanging off him because you couldn’t slow down long enough to coordinate something that wasn’t making him come. He barely got his pants back on before you were pulling them off again, mouth on his neck, sucking bruises like you didn’t get your fill of his skin just an hour ago.

Steve jerks him fast, one hand on his hipbone to feel it buck when he gets close. Steve swoops down and takes Bucky’s cock in his mouth, as deep as it’ll go.

Bucky gasps, “fuck—” his hands land on Steve’s head and curl in his hair, “ _fuck_.”

Steve sucks hard, drawing all the way off the tip, then swallows Bucky down again. He wraps his hand around the base of Bucky’s cock and sets a fast pace. They’re both shaking; it doesn’t take long. Bucky’s legs jump and tighten around his ears right before he comes. Steve sucks him through it. When Bucky starts pushing on his head, Steve holds Bucky’s cock in his mouth for a moment to feel it pulse and twitch. He sucks as he lets it slip loose and Bucky whimpers. As soon as he sits up Bucky is straining forward, reaching between his legs.

Steve undoes his fly with Bucky’s shaky hands palming and squeezing, hungry and demanding. He shoves his pants down his thighs so his cock curves up between them. Then catches Bucky’s hands and shoves them over his head. Steve pins both of Bucky’s wrists with one hand and takes his own cock in the other. Bucky is craning his neck, lifting his head up off the mattress to see Steve jerk himself off. He makes a sound like a whine and his stomach muscles jump. Steve leans in, resting his forehead on Bucky’s to coax his head back to the mattress.

Steve holds Bucky’s eyes and strokes fast. Bucky’s pushing against his head, pulling against his grip. Not hard, just enough. Steve shakes his head, groaning at how good it is. Getting off on the furrow between Bucky’s brows, the shadows over his eyes. He’s so close, Steve rockets straight to the edge and over it. He comes over his fist and onto Bucky’s stomach. 

 

* * *

 

They buy lube at 7-11 because, why not? 

Bucky picks out three different tubes while Steve tries very hard not feel embarrassed about it. Steve waits by the refrigerator full of drinks while Bucky pays. Bucky smirks at him from the register. There are a dozen ways Bucky could rib him for being skittish about buying lube—“the cashier knows our names, Buck”—but he passes all of them by. No jokes, just a warm hand in his while they climb back up to their apartment.

 

* * *

 

Bucky lays across both skateboards, one under his hips and one under his shoulders. He pushes off one wall of their apartment, coasts across the floor with a soft rumble, and catches himself against the opposite wall before pushing off again. He keeps his legs bent into his chest and rolls back and forth while Steve reads to him.

Steve’s phone buzzes and he pauses to pull up the message. It’s from Fury. New Hydra cell. Eastern Europe. Might be a trap. Need back-up. Steve turns off his phone and puts it back in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

And maybe it was to push him, even though he’s been pushed enough. Maybe that was the only way you were ever going to take things slow. Maybe it was just your way of doing things and you don’t have to justify it.

Or maybe, maybe it was all for this.

Steve sucking Bucky’s cock with his shoulders pushed up against the wall. No cushions, no bed. Bucky’s shirt rucked up under his arms, pants tangled around his ankles. They barely made it through the door before sprawling on the floor. Bucky’s worked his hand into Steve’s pants and he’s squeezing his ass. Grabbing and pulling like he wants Steve closer. Bucky comes and Steve moans through it. He pants around Bucky’s cock for a second and moves to stand, but Bucky is too quick. He catches Steve’s arms and pulls him back down. Bucky shoves him onto his back and crawls forward to straddle his hips.

“Steve,” his voice is ragged but purposeful, “Steve, fuck—” Bucky swallows, chest still heaving from his orgasm. “Steve,” Bucky stills and looks him right in the eye, “I want you.” The words come out so thick it’s nearly a groan, “I want you so bad.”

Bucky drops his head to nose against Steve’s neck, “Steve, I want you so bad I dream about it.” A sound escapes Steve’s lips. “You can’t imagine what I want to do to you.” 

Steve groans and his hips buck under Bucky’s weight. Bucky kisses wet under his ear, mumbling into hungry kisses, “How many ways I want to make you come. Fuck, Steve I’m losing my mind.” Bucky moves back up, letting his lips brush over Steve’s as he talks, “All the sounds you make. Seeing your mouth on my cock. The way you can’t keep your hands off me. God, Steve,” Bucky’s hands are shaking. He starts rocking into Steve’s cock, “I wanna suck you off so bad my mouth’s watering. I wanna hear you. I wanna make you come apart,” Steve moans, shameless and straining off the floor for a kiss. Bucky holds him down, “I want to make you come so hard you beg for it over and over. Can’t stop asking for my mouth on your cock.”

“Please—” Steve gasps out.

Bucky pushes Steve’s head to the side, his lips are curling like a wolf’s, “You want that?” 

“Yes.”

Bucky bites his earlobe and growls, “Then let me give it to you.”

Pleasure rips straight down Steve’s spine. _Holy—_ a blank sheet of wordless pleasure where thoughts used to be. He’s huffing the only words his mouth remembers in breathless pleas, “Please Buck, please—”

Bucky kisses his way down Steve’s chest, pushing back so he’s sitting on Steve’s legs. He presses his open mouth to the bulge behind Steve’s fly. Bucky breathes out slow and the wet heat cuts straight through the fabric. Steve writhes, begging with words and sounds needier than words. 

Bucky teases under the waistband of his trousers with his tongue. He unzips his fly and kisses up the length of Steve’s cock. Bucky pauses to ask, “Can I, Steve?” as if Steve wasn’t already begging.

“Bucky, please.”

Bucky closes his lips around the side of Steve’s cock through his underwear. He mouthes up the edge and asks again, “Can I suck your cock?” His voice is shaky with what sounds like relief.

“Yes, Bucky— ah—” Bucky pulls down his underwear and takes the head into his mouth. Bucky keeps his mouth tight and slowly pushes Steve’s cock deeper inside. He’s huffing and moaning around Steve’s skin and Steve is a jumble of sound. He’s at Bucky’s mercy now, losing his head in the intoxicating pour from want to pleasure. 

You push him so he’ll push you back. It’s hard to give but easy to give yourself up when he’s doing the taking.

 

* * *

 

A sleepy Sunday morning. Bucky asleep on Steve’s chest. Steve’s phone buzzes with a text from Sam, “Hey are you guys still alive”

Steve smiles and texts back, “Yeah i think so”

“Fury called”

Steve sets his phone down. He looks up at the ceiling and strokes Bucky’s back. His phone buzzes again, “I told him you’re off the clock”

“Thanks Sam”

 

* * *

 

They try to take in at least a couple of hours of sunlight each day. When they’re not walking, they’re skating. Bucky has, of course, already found countless ways to make this activity dangerous, even for him. He started jumping off curbs with his board, and then cars, and then buildings. Steve scolded him, but quickly caved to Bucky’s challenge to make the same jump. Bucky takes turns much to fast by bending over and digging his metal fingers into the asphalt.

And it is only now, with sparks jumping off Bucky’s fingers as he pivots onto a side street, that Steve asks himself why Stark gave Bucky another metal arm. _Couldn’t he have at least coated it with something that didn’t spark?_

 

* * *

 

Fury calls. Steve sits up to take the call. Bucky stays on his side and curls around Steve’s hips.

Fury is brief. He doesn’t repeat what he’s said before. Just says the team is at risk and they need help. Steve listens silently. He loses the thread of Fury’s words to Bucky’s warmth against his back. 

Bucky reaches for one of Steve’s feet and careful interlaces his fingers with Steve’s toes.

Steve says, “I thought Sam told you I was off the clock.”

Fury draws a long breath and Steve cuts him off, “Nick, I need to go.” He pauses for a second and hangs up. 

Bucky grins up at him. 

 

* * *

 

Your lips can’t get enough of his skin, and his hands want nothing but your body. The slip is incredible. It’s stronger than both of you several times over.

Steve is showering, passing soapy hands over his face and leaning into the spray. He turns around for the soap bottle and jumps. Bucky is right there, immediately behind him. Naked and smirking. 

“I wasn’t planning on surprising you,” Bucky takes a step closer so their thighs brush, “but you make it so easy.” Bucky hands him the soap bottle.

Steve pours a small puddle of soap into his palm, moves like he’s going to lather it into his own hair, then darts out and pours it onto Bucky’s hair. Bucky doesn’t even flinch. Steve wipes his palm down the side of Bucky’s head.

“That’s good,” Bucky nods as he brings his fingers up into his hair, “Good comeback.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow, “Yeah, well it was a good surprise.” He pours out more soap while Bucky lathers his hair. Steve soaps his chest while Bucky nudges past him, into the water’s flow.

“You gonna be a gentleman and wash this out too?” Bucky tips his head back into the water. 

Steve smiles and steps in. So much for showering. He lets their stomachs touch, his cock grazing Bucky’s thigh, and reaches up. Steve massages out the soap with firm fingertips. Bucky’s face relaxes and his eyes drift closed. Steve pushes loose fingers through Bucky’s hair, combing out tangles. He puts a steadying hand at the base of Bucky’s neck and strokes straight lines back from his hairline to the crown of his head.

Bucky opens his eyes. Inches apart, noses nearly touching. Steve’s soapy hands already behind his head. Expectation like elastic between you. Steve strokes a thumb along Bucky’s neck. He leans in, eyes drifting down his face, to his lips. 

Pause. 

Kiss him. Fill your lungs with steam and slip. It’s no time at all before you’re pushed up against the side of the tub with your legs spread and he’s taken your cock down so deep he’s gagging. Bucky pulls off for a breath, smooths his sopping hair from his face, and traces the long contour around the head of Steve’s cock with his tongue. He sucks hard and fast until Steve is tensing and groaning, then pulls off and watches him while stroking loose and light with his hand. Bucky waits till Steve has calmed down, kneeling in the tub with his cock heavy and full between his legs, water dripping off his shoulders. Steve gets louder and louder each time Bucky brings him to the edge but Bucky still won’t make him come. 

Bucky sucks until Steve’s thighs are shaking. Until he’s so far gone he can’t open his eyes. And instead of pulling off, he just stops. Or no, he’s moving, just very, very slowly. Bucky tightens his mouth around Steve’s cock and draws off slow, sucking hard on the head, then pushes back down. Steve takes a deep breath to let the tension ebb. There’s pressure building at the base of his cock. He opens his eyes to see Bucky’s dark eyes looking back at him. Pleasure washes like his body can’t figure out the source, sun-warmed waves passing through a calm sea. 

Steve lets Bucky watch his face, lets him see the effect he has. Steve’s so aroused he’s paralyzed. Bucky’s slow strokes lift him right past anticipation and into ecstasy. Orgasm pulls out a single white thread of pleasure from his melted body. It blooms backward from his cock, flashing up his stomach, curling around his shoulders, sparking up his neck. Steve opens his mouth, lets pleasure ravage him, lets his body shape the sound. Bucky doesn’t speed up and the wave seems to carry him forever. 

When Bucky finally pulls off, he takes his own cock in hand and starts to stroke. He takes a mouthful of water from the shower spray behind him and spits toward the drain. Then crawls closer and starts trailing his mouth over Steve’s skin. He licks up Steve’s abs and every stroke of his hand is bumping Steve’s leg. Maybe he’ll give you another hour or two before taking your clothes off. Maybe he’ll ask for another shower or spill something on you so you’ll have to take one. And maybe he’ll follow you in and tug you down. Going down on you just like this, like he hasn’t stopped thinking about it.

Bucky’s wet hair is trailing behind him, dark strands against Steve’s pale chest. Two flushed bodies that slip and slip; is this madness? Why wait?

Bucky has licked down to Steve’s cock and he’s pushing his tongue along the crease of Steve’s thigh. Steve puts his hand on the back of Bucky’s neck and tugs. Bucky looks up immediately. He sees Steve’s eyes and a grin spreads, “More?”

Steve just nods. He’s already getting hard again.

Bucky groans like he’s coming and guides Steve back into his mouth with his tongue. He’s sloppy this time, wet and fast, so Steve can feel every hitch and pause and moan as Bucky works himself closer and closer. 

Steve’s head falls back on the tub edge. He’s a mess of sensation, nerves still buzzing. The hot water trickles off Bucky’s back and onto his legs. Cool air from the bathroom creeps over the tub edge and wafts over his chest, raising goosebumps. His heart is already racing and his body is full and drunk and useless. 

Steve groans, “Make me come, Buck,” he swallows, “Tell me when,” slurring his words, “Do it even slower.” Bucky moans around him and his hand stops at the base of his own cock for a second. He composes himself and moans again. Like words alone can push him to the edge. Steve lets his eyes close themselves. His mouth is slack and face flushed. 

Lay in the tub until your fingertips are shriveled. Forget meals and coast around the city on wheels like you’re floating. A glutton for his attention, anything he wants to give you. Shaky hand on his head as your cock swells in his mouth. Slip and slip. What else is there but this?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! :)
> 
> If you're up for more tenderness and Steve giving an excellent lap dance, check out this other fic I wrote! http://archiveofourown.org/works/2394179


	6. Pull Some Thin Volume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And pull some thin volume from the hidden stack. Slide your thumb down the spine and let its pages splay. All books you wrote so you don’t need to read the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. Dear friends!!! Your waiting has not been in vain! I'm back and writing more tenderness for your stucky tenderness needs. A big warm thank you to all the lovely readers who messaged me during my break! Your enthusiasm and encouragement mean the world to me. ^.^ I'm really glad you're enjoying the story!
> 
> Here's your suggested soundtrack:
> 
> Smile by Galantis  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-uU0hgRtQs

Bucky grips the underside of the window pane while perched on the sill, three finger tips hooked in place, and leans back. It’s a long drop to the street below but Bucky doesn’t think of it in those terms. To call it a drop is to acknowledge you might fall. Three fingers on the windowsill and all he sees is space. Air blowing through the gap between buildings, whispering over the back of his neck. There’s more space above than below anyway.

Bucky swipes a rag over the glass pane, turns it so the dry side is against the glass, and dries it with swooping circles. The sun has retreated to its winter post, racing low over the southern sky and setting too early. Bucky keeps the windows clean so they catch all the light they can.

If the world gives you light you ought to take it. If the sun will warm your home, then clean the windows to let it in. When the city turns cold and life retreats under brown bark and thick fur, take autumn’s lingering gifts and winter’s stingy offerings. Store them within your four brick walls and count the days till spring.

Steve cleans the inside of the same window. He catches Bucky’s eyes every couple of swipes, focus jumping from the near glass to the face beyond it. Bucky smiles at him. Steve’s nervous. He’s nervous because he’s always nervous. Like Bucky is fragile or fleeting. It hasn’t faded and it seems like it won’t. It suits him though. The constant hum of quiet concern a comforting sound in their home.

Bucky ducks around to the inside of the open window and pushes forward on the window sill. Steve keeps cleaning, lifting onto his toes to reach the top of the pane. Bucky’s bent legs slip off the edge and fall on either side of Steve’s. Steve looks down and Bucky looks up. 

Shift your hips, just a hint. Friction between your thighs and his. Steve slides the window closed behind Bucky’s back. He bends down and kisses him softly.

A beat of nothing.

No thought, no sense, no rush or flood. Just still and warm and close and right. Bucky finds center is nowhere inside himself but instead in another. But of course it is. Bucky didn’t expect it to be quite this deep though. A warm embrace, a snug fit where a gap used to be, where it seems Steve didn’t have anything else resting before. 

Soft kisses that see the future. Quiet noises that promise more but don’t push for it. Sure hands that slide and trace. Firm pressure that gets the touch it wants, gives and takes in an increasingly nuanced dance.

There’s a lot still to learn. Without the white hot pressure of need for release sharpening his focus, Bucky’s beginning to realize that pleasure branches off under the skin, branching and branching like arteries to capillaries. Deepening and multiplying. An exponential blossom. You can’t ever _know_ him. Not really. Not fully.

Kissing until they’re melted, leaning into the window until Bucky pushes Steve off. He shuffles Steve onto the sill in his place and leans into him. Steve’s chest isn’t soft; it seems to push against any force with intention, like his muscles are made of something more like bone than skin. But he’ll soften it for you. The more time you spend forgetting any purpose the world might have picked out for you, the more ways he finds to make his body a mirror to yours. A cushion when you lean into it; a force to push against when you’re growling, hungry, animal; a soft heat when you’re falling asleep.

Bucky pushes him back, one hand on his shoulder, lips on his jaw. He folds Steve up, tugging up his legs by the knees and holding his feet on the very edge of the sill. Lean back and watch. The color of his cheeks, the way his eyes fall half-closed when he breathes out slow. 

Here’s the trick you’ve stumbled upon. Turning and turning down new paths, pushing and pulling and experimenting, fourteen forks in the road and you discover: he likes to be watched. 

Just watch. Steve’s flush deepens. He shifts his hips a little and lets his legs fall open. Months learning how people—normal, organically grown people—live, has taught you this should look obscene. All your mind sees is your lover, waiting and wanting, but you understand what it means for him to offer himself up. What it would mean to an outsider, someone looking in through the same window you’ve pressed him up against.

So he gets off on the giving. You can work with that. Open your eyes and let him give. No mask over the want in your eyes. Let your mouth drop open as you take him in. Soft exhale, bite your lip as you find his eyes again.

Catch him off guard and test another theory: he gets off on the taking. Your taking. Bucky surges forward, colliding with Steve in a rough kiss. He grabs both Steve’s hands and shoves them overhead. Bucky’s metal hand hits the glass a little too hard, rapping the pane. He groans into it, grinding against Steve. 

Steve’s whole body stutters. Tense-tense-tense-release and he’s moaning back. His hips roll and his breathing tips from unsteady to uncontrolled. Panting now, each breath a slightly different length. 

Bucky tugs him off the sill and half-holds him while he finds his footing. Bucky knocks him to the wall before he’s steady, unbuttoning his pants with quick fingers, shoving them down with rough hands. Steve’s cock pulls free and bounces up, lifting full and thick in the space between them. Bucky doesn’t touch it.

He grabs Steve’s wrists again and shoves them back over his head. Bucky leans his head in, close enough to feel Steve’s breath on his lips, but keeps his hips back.

A breath of quiet. And then another.

Steve makes a soft sound, a quietly impatient question, and pushes his naked hips away from the wall, searching for friction against Bucky’s body. Bucky pulls back and lets him strain forward into the gap. 

Steve whimpers. Bucky just watches him. Lets his exposed body give and arch, goosebumps rising on his pale skin. Bucky lets the flush deepen again. Until Steve’s eyes are blown black and shadowed and he’s nearly melting down the wall under Bucky’s gaze, weight starting to pull at Bucky’s grip on his wrists.

Bucky pulls him forward, bodies pressed flush and hot for a second, and throws Steve to the ground. Steve lands across one of their mattresses, pants tangled around his ankles. Bucky waits until Steve sees him standing over his body. He gives him a second to take it in, then kneels and pulls Steve to his knees. He pushes forward on Steve’s back until he’s bent over with his knees and shoulders on the mattress and his ass in the air. 

Bucky tries to let his hands move with a ruthlessness he’s been busy unteaching them. He lets them grab, grip tight on Steve’s skin. The touch brings sounds to Steve’s lips, pushes them out his throat. Bucky unzips his own pants and pushes them down, cock pulling up hard and aching. He leans over Steve’s prone body, moving as quickly as he wants to, feeling like his claws are unsheathed. Bucky lets his open mouth settle over Steve’s spine. He breathes out hot and wet. 

Steve rolls his shoulders, pushing his head against the mattress. He bends his hips until he finds Bucky’s cock behind him. Bucky stops him, one hand on Steve’s hip, but Steve is already rocking back into it, showing, suggesting, asking, begging. He thrusts his hips back against Bucky’s grip and rubs the tip of Bucky’s cock along the crease of his ass.

Bucky tests the limits, senses feeling a little too sharp. He pulls one of their lube bottles from its hiding place under the mattress and slicks his hand. He pulls the liquid over the head of his cock and down the shaft. Bucky closes his lips around a pleased sound and Steve moans into the sheets in reply. 

Bucky moves quickly, digging his metal fingers into the flesh of Steve's ass. He pulls Steve backward and thrusts forward at the same time. His slippery cock coasts over the sensitive skin of Steve's asshole, up the crease to his tailbone. Both men make sounds that shape themselves, uncensored. 

Bucky tightens his grip on Steve, he flattens his other hand over his own cock and presses it down against Steve's skin. Bucky thrusts hard, pulling Steve's hips back as he pushes forward, setting a rhythm that chops up Steve's helpless sounds into shaky, needy things that make Bucky's mouth drop open.

Steve asks for more. The line between giving and taking is so severely blurred that you answer without thinking. Steve wriggles his arms free of the sheets and puts his wrists behind his back, crossed just over his tailbone. A question. You are so eager to answer him, to please him, that you let go of his hip and grip his wrists. Pressing them tight together, grounding them against his body so you can still drag him backward to send pleasure rushing up your stomach.

Edging closer to orgasm under the unrelenting pace, Bucky lets his head bow toward his chest. He looks down at his cock, the tip of it emerging and receding from under the tips of his fingers. He presses down harder and sees himself. Kneeling over Steve, using his body, holding his wrists so tight he can feel his bones shifting under his skin, growling and fucking against him.  

Too animal for you. The man you want to be. But it's too late now. Bucky's grip flexes and slackens as he comes, pushing ecstasy through his body with each thrust. His head tips back and he lets it wash. 

He stills over Steve, swallows, and blinks around for something to clean him with.Steve rolls over. Come dripping onto the twisted sheets. He leans back on his elbows, knees dropping open so Bucky can see how hard he is. Learning to let himself be watched, a little at a time.

Steve reaches for his cock, fingers closing loose around the shaft. He pulls the foreskin down to fully expose the head, stretch tight the tender, red skin at the top of the shaft. Bucky ducks forward, a quickness closer to instinct than decision, and opens his mouth. Steve's cock hits his tongue first and Bucky lets it slide back. Cupping him with the curve of his tongue. Steve breathes in shaky and slow. Bucky closes his lips, licking gently, just wetting the skin, skimming over it. 

He sucks Steve slowly, never pulling off hard. Bucky swallows him down and pulses at the fullest point, Steve's cock pushing gently at the back of his palate. He pulls back just enough to alleviate the pressure and pushes forward to press the tip of Steve's cock against the wet heat again. It’s an apology, though clearly Steve has no idea; isn’t expecting one, doesn’t want one. Bucky feels a net around his lungs draw incrementally tighter. 

Steve's groans are escalating, peaking when Bucky pushes forward. His hands coil and uncoil in Bucky's hair, then search down his sides until he finds Bucky's hands. Steve clumsily closes one of Bucky's hands around his wrist. 

Clearly asking. Bucky squeezes Steve’s wrist once in acknowledgement and lets him go. He tucks his hands under each of Steve’s hips, thumbs massaging his hip bones as an excuse.

It’s an apology for the guilt in your gut. Bucky brings him to orgasm. He doesn’t swallow and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand as he pushes to his feet and walks away. Bucky spits into the bathroom sink and rinses his mouth out with a handful of water. He brings another handful of water to his face without a destination in mind and splashes it up, over his open eyes, into his nose. He shakes his head and spits again. 

Bucky grabs a towel and walks back to the bed. Steve reaches for the cloth but Bucky cleans him up instead. 

 

* * *

 

You’ve already found ways to make sex last for a long time. Too long, really. Bucky is more accustomed to the rubbed-red friction burn of grinding through clothes than the empty chest feeling that settles in after orgasm.

Release leaves you liquid and lifeless. Naps stretch and blur into the gaps between, when you’re just holding his head to your chest and stroking the same four lines over his scalp. When you’re breathing like you’re still asleep and his body is so warm. A silent, textured anthem for this existence. Isn’t life supposed to be suffering? 

You’re barely living. Must be something closer to dreaming. Or at least further from what life should be. The life we all get whether we deserve it or not.

Rain on the window pane and the sun stays in bed. Dull grey in the apartment and they don’t turn on the lights. Listening to the radio on Steve’s phone. Steve thinks it’s funny and Bucky smiles back but doesn’t really understand. No one owns radios now.

By the time the sky gives up its feeble light in the early afternoon, Bucky has already cleaned sticky white off Steve’s stomach three times. He kissed the salt from Steve’s forehead when he was sweating, coming apart in Bucky’s hands again and again. It’s funny how you can feel his heat before your lips even reach his face. Like his body has opened the windows, letting out its fever to invite a breeze. 

Bucky leans into one elbow, slouched across the bed, chewing on the crust of a piece of toast. He looks at the creases at the corner of Steve’s eyes. The way his eyes don’t always close completely when he blinks. 

Sometimes you want his touch. And sometimes you just want his intention. 

Bucky sets his crust aside, back on the plate resting on the floor, and crawls closer to Steve. He pushes Steve’s shoulder until he’s lying flat on his back on the bed. Bucky straddles his hips and crawls forward with his knees. He keeps his spine straight so he’s looking down the plane of his chest to see Steve’s face. Bucky keeps his chin up so his lidded eyes can talk. 

Bucky reaches down with his left hand and grabs himself through his underwear. Steve’s eyes follow the movement and with a single exhale he shifts from sleepy-in-the-sheets to ready-eyes-hungry-hands. Steve reaches up to meet Bucky’s hand. He lets his own fingers settle further down, on the underside of Bucky’s balls. Feeling and stroking, looking up at Bucky like he’s waiting for something. Bucky lets go of himself and pulls Steve’s hand away with a loose grip. He interlaces their fingers and leans forward, pinning Steve’s hand to the mattress above his head. 

Bucky shoves down his underwear with his free hand and starts to stroke himself. He opens his mouth and lets a sound take shape. A breathy moan of relief and need, a sound that asks for something more. Bucky bends his elbow so their faces are close enough to kiss. He licks his lips and tips his chin forward. Steve lifts his head from the mattress to meet him and Bucky pulls back an inch. He parts his lips and Steve strains up, eyes on his mouth, angling for a kiss.

Bucky works himself quickly, setting the pace that will get him to the edge the fastest. He pants down on Steve’s lips, soft sounds falling loose. Steve pulls up and up, thickening the tension between their faces, the magnetic pull of their lips. Bucky lets him get close enough to brush, just close enough to touch. Steve begs with the tilt of his head, angling one way and then another, desperately trying to close the distance. 

Bucky finally kisses him when he comes.Sharing the release, the swell, the surprise of it. He comes all over Steve’s chest, breathing hard through his nose. Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s hand, fingers holding him still until the wave sets his feet back on the ocean floor. 

 

* * *

 

Sex gives you free reign over his body, or so it seems. The opportunity to satisfy deeper curiosities, questions about his physical self that lead you right back to your physical self. Your bodies are similar, but they have lived different lives. Even if the serum heals, it doesn’t erase.

Only in the calm of his arms can you look inside. Really look. And pull some thin volume from the hidden stack. Slide your thumb down the spine and let its pages splay. All books you wrote so you don’t need to read the words. 

It’s not the words that matter anyway. It’s the smell that gets you. That forgotten book smell, the smell of memories. Of everything this body did before this lifetime. Bucky steadies himself in the nest of their home, and lets himself stand next to, in front of, facing away from, the knowledge of the things he has done. 

He cautiously lets that self join him on a park bench. They sit together for a minute, then Bucky stands and walks off down the sidewalk, hands shaking in his pockets.

 

* * *

 

Two in the morning and time doesn’t mean what it should. The deep black of the middle of the night and Bucky wakes up with his mouth on Steve’s shoulder. He’s sucking and biting, groping between his legs and huffing his want in short breaths over Steve’s skin. 

Consciousness gives him pause, but why stop? Steve is already loose and moaning softly. His heavy body laying back on Bucky’s. Besides, sex in the middle of the night means shaking. Bucky wriggles under the sheets and not five minutes later he’s got tremors rippling through Steve’s body, shaking his stomach muscles, chattering his teeth. When he’s caught between sleep and wakefulness, he shakes like he’s freezing cold right before he comes.

Bucky sucks him through his orgasm and pulls off with a muttered curse. He kisses up Steve’s quaking abdomen and nuzzles into the crook of his neck. Steve finds his cock and pushes the foreskin down, fingers reaching straight down toward Bucky’s balls. Bucky gasps softly into Steve’s skin. 

Steve nudges his shoulder lower to get a better grip. He mumbles into Bucky’s hair, voice still unsteady from the nighttime shake, “I love the sounds you make.”

They’re getting better at that, putting words to things, starting sentences with _I love_ and _I want_. Bucky knows they’re not requests but he hates to let them slip by unrewarded. He lifts his head and hovers over Steve’s lips. He lets the tide of Steve’s gentle strokes find a voice, soft groans and sudden, disbelieving huffs. Bucky bites Steve’s lower lip lightly and revels in the way his breath catches. He nuzzles into him, slipping into that familiar hazy closeness where everything is touching and body parts don’t have names. Bodies don’t even have parts. Everything is skin and skin is just sensation. 

Drunk lips, slurring, “I love when you shake,” right into Steve’s ear.

 

* * *

 

“Boyfriend?”

Steve looks up from the sink, throwing raised eyebrows over his shoulder.

“Fella. For my old-fashioned fella?”

Steve snickers at that. An indulgent smile on his lips. He says nothing.

“Husband,” Bucky’s voice drops on the word, “Practically.”

Steve stills. The smile freezes but doesn’t fade. He blinks down at the dish in his hands.

Bucky laughs and Steve looks up. Their eyes meet but the look is too complicated to communicate.

“Best friend?” Bucky raises his eyebrows and shoulders, “Doesn’t mean it’s not more. Best friend plus.”

Steve snorts and rinses the dish.

“You don’t have any pet names for me.”

“Buck.”

“That’s my actual name.”

Steve laughs. It’s true. But funny in the way that reality sometimes is. 

“Why do you think that is?”

Steve shrugs, “I like your name.”

“Yeah I like your name too. Doesn’t mean you can’t have more than one.”

Steve nods once and draws his lower lip into his mouth like he’s thinking.

“Honey,” Bucky supplies, “Sweetie. Babe.”

“No, not that.” Steve turns away from the sink, face serious, “Not babe.”

“Daddy.”

“Oh god.” Steve’s eye snap shut like something has been thrown in his face. He shakes his head quickly, “Go back to babe.”

Bucky cracks up. He laughs so hard he has to crouch down, hand braced against the floor. He laughs for so long that Steve crouches next to him. Tears in his eyes, shaking his head. Can’t speak but he’s sure Steve knows what he would say if he could. Steve starts to laugh in spite of himself. He puts a hand on Bucky’s bent knee and Bucky covers it with his own.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is their primary interface with the world. Steve may have lived in it for longer, but Bucky is more comfortable with the particular flavor of anonymity needed to navigate it. Bucky uses self-check at the grocery store so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone. He keeps conversations with necessary cashiers short and tight. His voice is bored when Steve’s is unmanageably anxious. It’s nice to be the one with the brave face, standing in front for once, answering robotic questions about their plans for the weekend.

They’re in the cereal aisle, looking at the granola at the far end, when Bucky says with mischief in his voice, “Hey babe, can you grab a box of Chex?” 

Steve looks over at him, face confused and unreadable.

Bucky fights to keep his voice neutral, “What’s the matter, babe?” He loses it on the last word, voice wavering with a swallowed laugh.

Steve steps forward and feints like he’s going to cuff Bucky’s ear. Bucky ducks and feints a blow of his own, grin spreading on his face. Steve catches his arm and pulls. Bucky lets himself be drawn in, his back to Steve’s chest for a fleeting embrace. Steve kisses his temple before he lets go.

Feeling playful, Bucky teases him as they wander the aisles. Turning another space into a place to trade touches, push the boundaries of what he’ll let you get away with. But Steve is so transparent, so wide-eyed in his wanting, that it’s not long before the words Bucky’s murmuring to get him tripping are honest promises. 

Standing too close behind him as Steve rummages through the bags of frozen vegetables, “Hey we should head up to the roof, now that it’s cold outside,” he pauses to kiss Steve’s ear, “sheets aren’t going to cut it though. Maybe we’ll get a sleeping bag.” Bucky leans to the side to see Steve’s expression, “So we can sleep under the stars.” He snakes an arm around Steve’s hips, hand settling flat, suggestively low on his stomach, “Do our best to stay warm.”

Steve smiles crookedly. He stands in front of the open freezer door with his hand on the handle and settles his head to the side so it rests against Bucky’s.

Bucky lets him get to the end of the aisle before catching his hand and pulling back. Bucky steps forward as Steve spins, so they find themselves chest-to-chest. They’re not the only ones in the aisle so Bucky doesn’t throw him up against the glass door, just shifts his grip to Steve’s wrists and says, voice low and quick, “Or we could just do it on the bike. Fuck on the leather.” Bucky tightens his grip, “Not a lot of space though,” Bucky leans in, speaking hot air over Steve’s lips, “Maybe I’ll just tie you down and ride that instead.” 

Steve’s mouth falls open. Bucky drops his hold and Steve’s hands come up reflexively. They land on Bucky’s waist, inside his unzipped jacket, and slide back and down. One hand on his ass and one just over his hip. Bucky lets himself be pulled forward, stomach pressing to Steve’s. 

Steve says nothing but tilts his head like he’s considering, hungry, a touch predatory. Steve pushes their foreheads together but doesn’t kiss him. He lets go and licks his lips, eyes dark. Bucky pulls one corner of his lips up into a grin.

Brushing close in the dairy section. Murmured words in line at the check stand. Hand on his thigh on the drive home. 

As soon as they’re through the apartment door, setting the grocery bags on the kitchen island, Bucky makes his move. He grabs Steve’s hips and kicks one leg out from under him. Bucky holds him tight with his left arm and slows his backward fall by catching the ground with his right. 

Laid out on the floor, boots resting together. Kissing slow and deep. There’s release but never true satisfaction. Never enough it seems. The hunger is more a blessing than a curse. Like an insatiable man set before a feast. You might say he’s never full but he’d say he never wants to be. Not here, at a table that’s never bare.

Steve flips them over and pushes Bucky against the kitchen cabinets. His voice is gravelly and direct, “Hands on the counter.”

Bucky reaches overhead and grips the counter edge. He lets Steve pull down his trousers, light kisses and possessive, gentle bites at his hip bones. Steve puts one hand on his crotch and uses the other to tip Bucky’s head back, thumb along Bucky’s jaw. Steve cranes his neck and kisses a line from his chin down to the hollow of his throat.

 

* * *

 

Bodies pushed together like the puzzle pieces you’ve made them to be. Ecstasy in the moments when he pushes or pulls and your whole body shifts. Eyes roll back. Give in. 

Bliss when you tie his tongue. Grinding in his lap, whispering in his ear, “You like when I talk dirty to you?”

“Yes,” Steve’s gasping, moaning sounds like words, “Yes.”

“It’s easy ‘cause I never stop thinking about it.” The air’s so hot between their faces. Bucky grinds forward again, bent legs splayed on either side of Steve’s hips. “Can’t get the sounds you make out of my head. Can’t forget how good you look like this.” Bucky’s voice is coming undone at the seams, his own arousal weighing heavy, pulsing hot. “Want to catch you right out of the shower and get you filthy all over again.” 

Big words, say whatever you want, “I want to fuck you.” Bucky groans, open-mouthed at the end of the sentence. He tucks his head lower to growl in Steve’s ear, “Make you come on my cock. I wanna see you ride it.” Bucky rolls his hips again, the first peaks of a coming orgasm washing through his lower back, “I’m gonna— hold you down and fuck— you into the floor.” Slurred words and Steve is gripping his hips so tight, “I wanna— come inside you.” 

Steve’s moaning back, bucking his hips in reply. Bucky thrusts into the friction. 

Sex is a force all its own. Soft touches are one thing. Lazy kisses and heady daydreams of more. But sex brings new physicality; it’s rougher, faster, more direct. You keep ruining his shirts. A tussle with no rules but the pursuit of pleasure. You grin down at him, wild and flushed, and he grins back. 

 

* * *

 

Making out in Bucky’s truck. Nothing serious enough to come, but enough to get to the edge. You could find the edge in your sleep. 

Curse over your tongue with your lips against his. Kiss and slur, “Fuck.” Lust like cotton balls in your mouth. 

Steve pushes his tongue into Bucky’s mouth and Bucky obediently moans around it. Take all the attention lavished on you, soak it in like a cold-blooded creature with no warmth of its own.

Bucky pulls back abruptly and turns his head to the side, face drawing in. He lifts the back of his hand to his mouth and sneezes. He’s so turned on it feels like coming. Bucky laughs in a short burst. He looks back up at Steve and laughs again. 

The laughter trips over itself until he’s cracking up and Steve is smiling, kissing his jaw, asking, “What’s so funny?” Bucky just shakes his head, smiling wide. You’re in no hurry.

 

* * *

 

Routine is its own kind of bliss. His lap is always open for you. Bucky settles over him, insides of his knees resting against Steve’s hips.

“So Steve,” Bucky floats four fingers through Steve’s soft hair.

Steve looks up, soft eyes, smiling face.

“Are you going to tell me all the things you want me to do or should I guess?”

Steve’s eyes sparkle, “I want you to guess.”

Bucky laughs, “Okay.”

Love is something that spills from your mouth, but lust is difficult to put into words. Sometimes the pieces click into place and you’re surprised by your own clarity.

There are some things they definitely don’t talk about. Like all the phone calls. Each call seems to multiply and spawn more and more calls. Steve used to answer the phone wherever he was, which was always right next to Bucky, until Bucky started leaving the room when the conversation turned to missions and contingencies and strategies. Now Steve takes the calls on the roof.

 

* * *

 

Snuggling on the couch. Steve’s sleepy voice in his ear, “You smell good.”

“Do I smell like I used to?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Steve seems to love the long wait. And he plans excellently for it. They’re only ten minutes into the movie when Bucky realizes the whole thing is a set up. Steve sitting behind him at one edge of the seat, arms wrapped around his waist. Their legs are tangled and stretched along the couch. 

Bucky can’t even remember the name of the movie playing on Steve’s laptop, which is resting on the opposite arm rest, because Steve has shifted one hand to Bucky’s ribs and the other to his crotch. Despite all of Bucky’s squirming and gentle rocking into his hand, Steve will not be moved. With a mix of patient resignation and heady anticipation, Bucky knows he’ll have to wait at least two hours before Steve goes anywhere with it.

Blood rushes at the thought and Bucky’s cock starts to thicken. He melts into Steve’s arms and lets him gently knead his cock and balls. Bucky bites his lower lip and his whole body feels like syrup. His breath sinks lower in his body, pushing out his stomach with each inhale. Pleasure blooms out from his chest and rolls down his limbs. 

Steve settles his nose and lips against Bucky’s hair and breathes through it. A pulse of warmth to coax Bucky a little closer to losing his mind. When the movie is racing toward some long awaited resolution, and Bucky is hard and full of warm water and breathing through his mouth with his eyes closed, Steve mumbles into his ear, “Jesus, Buck.”

Steve runs a firm thumb up Bucky’s cock and Bucky groans, lip curling.

“Mmm,” Steve folds his arms a little tighter, pulling Bucky’s loose body back. He mumbles into the hair behind Bucky’s ear, “Look at you. Jesus.” Neither of them can see anything, of course. Not curled up like this. “Look at you.”

 

* * *

 

You crave intimacy and sex is the height of it. Nothing closer than having him in your mouth and thinking about maybe, possibly, eventually being inside him in other ways. Sex clears the wires. You know exactly what he wants and how to give it to him.  

But instead of giving up everything for sex, you make everything into sex. 

Bucky takes a huge bite out of an apple and grabs Steve’s waist. He nudges the bite against Steve’s lips until he takes it, chews, and swallows. Bucky takes another bite and feeds him again.

Or announcing that he’s heading out for a quick errand, walking to the stairwell, texting Steve to ask him to come along, waiting for the stair door to open, and surprising him with a filthy kiss. Hands against the wall, tongue rough and deep, hips against his. Then leaning back and cocking an eyebrow. Like _how about that?_ Cocky because your swagger makes Steve’s eyes roam.

 

* * *

 

“In the hallway at the CIA.”

Bucky laughs, turning his face toward his pillow, “Yeah well. That was obvious. The guy I was with thought you were trying to pick me up.”

“I was,” Steve bites his lower lip in a smile.

Bucky shakes his head a little, grinning, “You did a shit job of it.”

“Hey,” Steve pushes up on one elbow, “No.” He gestures to Bucky’s sprawling form on the bed.

“Yeah took you long enough,” Bucky ribs.

“The best ones are hard to catch.”

“Is that what I am?” Bucky drawls the question, “A catch?”

Steve cocks his head, “Maybe. What about you?”

“When I thought about kissing you?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh— every time we sat in the kitchen.” A smile creeps up his face, “Every time we did the dishes together. All those plane rides.”

“That doesn’t count. Name a specific time.”

“Alright alright,” Bucky pushes up on his elbow as well, “At the Chinese theatre.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods with his eyebrows up, pauses, and then shakes his head. Bucky laughs and Steve rolls his eyes. Bucky laughs harder.

“Your turn again.”

“At the zoo. When you fell asleep.”

“Mm!” Bucky shakes his head with mock rebuke, “Rogers. You wouldn’t take advantage of me like that.”

“You’re right. Doesn’t mean I didn’t think about it.”

Bucky leans forward and kisses Steve lightly, “Give me another.”

“Oh—” Steve kisses him back, lips closing around Bucky’s bottom lip, “Bribery, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers.

“In Geneva. When you came to the door shirtless.”

Bucky huffs a little laugh, “That worked on you, huh?” Bucky kisses him again, lingering close, “Another.”

“So demanding,” Steve says through a small smile, “At the diner. The first time.”

Bucky leans back. He finds Steve’s eyes, “Really?”

“Yeah.” Steve’s face is serious. “Buck, I’ve always wanted you.”

He lets the words stand alone. Then reaches up to pull Bucky forward again with his hand on the back of Bucky’s neck. 

“What about you?” Steve kisses him, longer this time, “Do I get anything besides kisses for all this?”

Bucky kisses him again. And again, a little harder. He pulls back, “I slept on the roof the night after we met at the diner.”

“What? Sam’s roof?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

Steve laughs once, studies Bucky’s face, and laughs again. 

“I saw you asleep in my room.”

Steve’s eyebrows rise and his eyes widen a little. “Wow,” he nods to himself, “You’re pretty good with secrets.”

Bucky leans in, mumbling over his lips, “Not anymore.”

 

* * *

 

All sorts of little things start coming back. The joking and teasing are just the beginning. Grappling and roughhousing take a while. They don’t come from sex but they certainly lead to it.

Comfort comes and then sex becomes grappling becomes sex. Wrestling on the wood floor because it’s less forgiving than the mattress. Just beginning to sweat. Steve goes for Bucky’s arm and Bucky catches both his wrists. He shoves Steve’s arms over head, pressed to the floor, and holds him completely still for beat. Just because he can. Steve’s bright-eyed and breathless, he jerks against Bucky’s hold and the right arm budges up a little.

Bucky makes a tsk-tsk sound and drops his head. He nudges up Steve’s chin with his nose and kisses the skin of his throat. Panting as he speaks, “Look at all these— vulnerable— spots.”

“You sure it’s not a trap?” Steve moves before Bucky can process the challenge. He pulls his right shoulder back and sweeps Bucky’s right arm behind him as he rolls them over.

They hit the floor with Bucky on his back, laughing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what took me so long, I was writing Brightwork, which is a Steve & Bucky epic that's publishing now! If you're up for some major feels come check it out! http://archiveofourown.org/works/2668874
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me! ^.^


	7. Breathe In. Look Up. Count Down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! A nice long chapter for you!
> 
> Soundtrack suggestion!
> 
> Reach for Me by Dinka (Dmitri Vangelis & Wyman Remix)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrDyROxEXiQ

Mornings are grey light, glittering eyes, crooked smiles. Bucky never wants to get out of bed to make breakfast. They’ve finally switched on the heat but the knob stays turned down low so they can make a nest of warmth under the covers with their body heat. Steve nudges him and whispers quietly, the same words every morning, “Hey your turn to make breakfast.” Bucky does his best to look thoroughly asleep with a straight face and limp body.

Once, Steve slowly nudged him all the way to the edge of the mattress and onto the floor. Bucky’s eyes shot open when he tipped over the edge onto the cold floor. He gave Steve this shocked look that split Steve’s grin into a guffaw.

A good prank is one repeated, refined, distilled to its essence. Steve works on new ways of dumping Bucky out of the bed and Bucky gets better at countering them. Once, after Steve’s attempt was confounded by Bucky’s legs around his waist, Bucky stood abruptly, taking the covers with him. He smirked over his shoulder as he walked away, wrapped up and trailing sheets.

But when he goes, willingly or not, when he stands, naked with his tousled hair in his face, he is breathtaking. The word’s not enough. He takes your breath. Draws it straight from your lungs like covers off the bed, leaves your skin tingling in the air. It’s the way he moves, his frame without the context of his person, when you just see his body.

_Come back._ Your heart is cavernous and aching. You look down and hear it cry again, _come back. Come back to me. Lay down. Stay close._ Is it the ache of limited time? Knowing you’ll both be gone some day because life is fleeting? Or is closer than death’s ambiguous threat? Time is short, but how short? Look at your watch. Look around the corner. Call him back to you one more time. Breathe in. Look up. Count down.

Bucky brings back breakfast in two bowls and sets them on the floor. He crawls over Steve’s body and Steve shifts so he’s flat on his back. He looks up and Bucky looks down with easy eyes. Steve reaches up until his fingers touch Bucky’s cheekbone. Bucky leans into the touch and closes his eyes. Tenderness when he demands it, no negotiation. You can’t be sure, because memory has a way of wiping out life’s blurry bits, the parts you didn’t understand, but it seems like the tension under his skin has eased.

“So,” Steve runs his hand back and through Bucky’s hair. Bucky turns his head into the motion. “What are we doing today?” 

“I have—” Bucky pauses to push into Steve’s hand and turn his head the other way, dragging Steve’s fingers back along his head, “many plans.”

Steve laughs. He brings his other hand up and weaves his fingers into Bucky’s hair. He massages ten little circles into Bucky’s skin.

Bucky rotates his head slowly back and forth in Steve’s hands, mumbling into the hair hanging over his face. “Groceries. Bank—”

“You don’t have a bank account.”

“Post office. Pharmacy. 7-11.”

“You’re just naming things we live close to.”

Bucky grins through his hair and Steve’s reflex acts first. He pulls Bucky’s head down and in to his chest. He holds Bucky in place for a breath.

“Library.”

“Sounds good, Buck,” Steve kisses the top of his head.  

 

* * *

 

Coming down a one-lane street that hasn’t been paved in long time. A steep hill, the kind you lean into. Bucky drops first; he leads and you follow. Bucky lowers his chest as his board tips over the peak. The rumble of its overtaxed wheels grows louder and faster. His hair whips back and he crouches. Bucky plummets and Steve follows him down. 

Near the bottom of the hill, where the road levels out just before an intersection, Bucky hits a gravely pothole. His left hand shoots out and a short burst of sparks follows him as he steadies the board. It fishtails in the loose rocks and Bucky leans back, right arm reaching out for the ground. Half a second of chaos and Bucky’s wheels tip back onto the pavement. He resumes his racing tuck, both arms held behind his back. 

Bucky leads them back home and jumps off his board, stomping on its tail to send it leaping into the air, into his arms. He walks through their 7-11’s doors and holds his free hand back, open and reaching behind him. Steve jogs two steps, reaches out, and curls his fingers into Bucky’s.

Moving as one. Bucky chews his bottom lip as they wander down the aisle with packaged pastries at the end. They’ve tried almost everything on the shelf. They were working their way through the various powdered donuts when seasonal Pumpkin-spiced versions of everything started showing up and sidetracked them.

Bucky reaches for an unfamiliar orange and brown package. He brings the bag close to his face to inspect the cake-like thing inside. Steve sees the streak of red and drops the hand he’s holding. Steve catches Bucky’s wrist and rotates it to see a ragged scrape from his forearm to his palm. 

Steve looks up with raised eyebrows and Bucky just shrugs. “Pothole got me.”

The skin is already healing, scabbing over without inflammation. Steve brings the cut to his lips and kisses it. He noses up to the widest point of the gash on the heel of Bucky’s hand and kisses again. Bucky drops the package. Steve lifts his eyes and feels the weight of his eyelids give away his intentions. He opens his lips and kisses again, tongue pressing briefly to the scrape. 

Bucky watches Steve’s lips as he kisses again and again, each one wetter than the last, lingering open-mouthed, warm and wet on his skin. Bucky steps in, Steve can feel his breath on his cheek, and closes the world to a shadowed space. Steve looks up without lifting his lips from Bucky’s skin to see his eyes twinkling.

“Who are you anyway?” Bucky says with a smile.

“What?” Steve lifts his head.

“I mean,” Bucky ducks and kisses him, “What kind of crazy guy—” He stops to kiss again, “Who would be—” He shakes his head, and concludes, “You’re crazy.”

“What?” Steve asks again, smiling and puzzled.

Bucky just grins back at him.    


* * *

 

It’s only a hug if you release. And it’s not quite ‘holding’ because that implies an effort to hold on instead of let go. You spend a lot of time pressed chest to chest. You lean in a little and let gravity hold you in place, like two boulders worn by rain and snow to fit snugly side-by-side. One hand right between his shoulder blades. You can feel him tense and relax, you can follow each breath, you can hear his heart beat. The other hand pressed to his tailbone. Tucked inside his pants so you can feel the heat of his skin. Fingers pointed down with your middle finger resting just above the crease of his ass. As possessive a gesture as you could think of.

Bucky’s hands wander up and down your back. He chews thoughtfully on the sleeve of your shirt with his front teeth, busy being held.

 

* * *

 

Once Bucky has eased into intimacy, a transition he used to tense at, he kicks straight down, diving to deeper waters. Hand tight around the base of your cock when he’s sucking you off. Dark eyes look up. 

Another want for the two of you to dance around. You want him to take but can’t say it. Won’t ask for it. He clearly knows. His quiet looks are always asking you something. You’re his anchor after all. He’s here because you asked him to jump, because he trusts you. So you’re not going to drag him through that oil slick. You’re not.

Besides, he carries you higher in ways you never expected, gives you things your mind has never fantasized about. The peak of pleasure burns brighter when his eyes are on you. His eyes always reflect the disbelief, the surprise in yours. It feels better when you’re coming for him. Coming apart in his hands. It feels good to do something worth looking at. To be something worth looking at.

 

* * *

 

They are too big for this couch. They are, individually, much too large for it, and collectively they overwhelm it. They are men with a couch underneath, not men sitting on a couch. It took Steve a very long time to realize this.

Like the bed before it, the couch becomes an arena for playful tussling. Watching a movie with their bodies stretched out in wavy planks, slouched against the cushions with their legs stretching toward the floor. They sit shoulder to shoulder. Steve holds a bowl of popcorn dusted with nutritional yeast, which Bucky only recently discovered and now wants to put on everything.

Bucky flicks at the popcorn bowl until Steve lifts it up. He heaves himself onto his shoulder and flops down on Steve so they’re lying chest to chest. Steve groans with mock-discomfort at the weight. Bucky snickers and tucks his face against Steve’s neck.

“Do you want to pause the movie?”

“No,” Bucky already sounds like he’s going to sleep.

“Okay. Should I describe it to you?”

“Yeah.”

Steve huffs a laugh and mutes the volume on his laptop. He narrates the action, clumsily switching between background description, play-by-play, interpretation, and guessing at the dialog. Steve eats popcorn one handed and rests his other hand on Bucky’s back. He loses a few kernels into Bucky’s hair and laughs while trying to brush them out. Bucky laughs under him, quiet and warm, though he can’t possibly know what’s funny.

 

* * *

 

Sex is incredibly powerful. It can force nothing from you but its call is so alluring that you’ll lay down, head in its lap, at nearly every invitation. You hand over control of your body, control you’ve fought so hard for. You melt and shake and pant, muffling consciousness so sensation can bloom.

Maybe if you were a different man, one who had always known the same body, you could see that the self who emerges during sex is still you. You could nod at this creature that doesn’t speak your language and let him stretch out in the sun. But you’re wary of the things he wants. You’re afraid of his intentions and when he’s the one moaning through your mouth and begging, _yeah, more, just like that, harder, harder,_ your unease turns to distaste. Why does he want what he wants? And if he can’t explain than why you should shut off your mind so he can prowl?

It’s funny—you know that much, everything is funny with a little time and distance—that you are so suspicious of your sensory self but so eager to embrace his.

Sex is the closest you can get to knowing what it feels like to be in his body. He’s transparent when he tips over the edge. When he can’t kiss you back any longer and he’s gasping over trembling lips. No decorum or restraint. He is all that nature gave him and nothing man tried to melt down and form anew. Black eyes, flushed face, hands gripping your arms a little too tight because he’s not in control. He’s barely aware of you when he’s lost in that whirlwind and yet you feel so close to him.

Quiet glow flares to crackling flame. Bucky is so happy. You can see it on his face. He’s so happy. It fills you up the way the world never could.

 

* * *

 

Bucky lets pride play over his features when Steve would’ve tried to hide it. He’s cock-sure and handsy right after he makes Steve come. He’s possessive and uncensored. He slurs affection and holds Steve by his wrists. He grins against Steve’s ears like he _knows._ Like he holds some key to your pleasure, and simply holding the key—dangling like dog tags around his neck, no doubt—simply having that power is enough to make his ego swell.

Like he really believes that making your eyes roll back makes him a man. You play at the edges of the lives you left behind and all the moral shards your strong bodies and quick minds let you walk away from.

There’s still something in knowing the same hands that caress your skin have done— would do— will do— much darker things. And would you still shake like you’re hollow under his grip if you couldn’t still see the shadow of violence in his eyes? 

Does he know? Can he see it? Does he growl because he can tell you dream of him with a black cloth over his face? 

Steve drops his head back, the last waves of an orgasm pulsing their way through his body. He breathes deeply, letting his lungs empty themselves of the last breathless sounds. Bucky’s metal hand settles warm on his stomach. It slides lower and Steve breathes into it.

Bucky lets his heavy fingers trail over Steve’s body, up his chest, over his lips, back down to his spread legs. He pauses in sensitive creases, over pulse points, and listens with his fingertips. He never talks and neither does Steve. But the message is clear enough when Steve groans, breathy and pleased, and Bucky’s shoulders dip forward, bending with whatever that sound means to him. 

 

* * *

 

At the grocery store. Not the nicest one but the one where hoodies and cap brims are enough to deflect anyone who might approach. Bucky looks incredible. Every day. But particularly today. Particularly in this moment, under these harsh lights with his jacket pulled up at the collar and his hands in his pockets. 

There’s a sharpness to his face, his eyes, his jaw that turns your eyes and widens them. _It can’t be._ A non-sequitur thought, an emotion with words. It can be, of course, it is. He is. But he breaks the rules. He pulls that bent need to touch and kiss right out of your chest and grins over his shoulder. 

Bucky opens a glass door in the frozen food section and holds it open with one hand. He reaches for a box of phyllo dough. He flips it over. Bowed neck, careful eyes. Steve wraps his arm around Bucky’s chest. He’s moving so fast that Bucky’s abs flex in surprise. His hand grips the far curve of Bucky’s ribs and spins him around. The other hand catches the back of his head because you’re predictable and he loves it. Kissing him into the freezer shelves, making soft, needy sounds against his lips. Bucky’s boot skids briefly and he steadies himself against Steve’s shoulder. A fierce, fleeting embrace and Steve pulls back.

You’re always starting things when they can’t be finished. Even in the shallows of the calmest peace you’ve ever called day-to-day life, you’re still kicking up a spray. Bucky gives you a small smile and pulls his cap back down over his eyes.

He bites back a few aisles later, bending over when Steve is crouched to see a lower shelf, nipping with gentle teeth at the lobe of his ear. Is it baiting if he wants it too? Is it fair when you get back to the truck that you drop the bags on the asphalt and he meets you in front of the chromed out grill? Walking up with eyes down like his mind is elsewhere, only to loom out of the shadow and crowd you against the hood. Bucky braces his hands behind Steve on the truck. Dark intention and the creature in your chest howls. Duck your head and coax him closer. Don’t ask, don’t answer. Show him.

Steve drops his head to one side, noses Bucky’s jacket collar away, and kisses warm skin. His lips part and he kisses twice, tongue pressing to the skin between open lips. Steve sucks and Bucky inhales. He breathes out on a laugh and says, voice thick and amused, “Frisky.” 

They both laugh. Steve lifts his head and breathes in the intoxicating scent of his hair. Stomachs touching through thin shirts where your jackets are unzipped. Suddenly, Bucky has his hand in Steve’s hair and he’s pushing his tongue into his ear. Bite your lips to swallow the sound. Shock and arousal ripple through Steve’s body. Push against him to tell him how it feels. Maybe it is fair. If he meets you halfway, then he can’t be doing anything he doesn’t want to do, right? Maybe it is fair.

 

* * *

 

Steve finds a letter, folded into thirds, sitting on top of a ripped-open envelope on the kitchen counter. He leaves it alone, though it’s rare for either one of them to get mail. Steve pulls out the carton of orange juice. Even stranger for them to open it. Steve turns around. 

He goes back to the paper and skims the cover letter text without touching it. _Appreciate your visit… enclosed, as discussed… lab results…_ Steve reaches out and flattens the pages. He slides off the cover letter to see a chart of tests and results on the next page. The medical abbreviations— _HCV AB, HIV, NGAMPDNA, C TRACH_ — don’t mean anything to him. 

Steve turns over the page and his eyes immediately catch on the word under the _Summary_ header. _Syphilis_. Steve tracks the line across to the right column where it reads _Negative_. On the next line sits _Gonorrhea_ and _Negative_. Then _Hepatitis B_ and _Negative_ , and so on. Seven venereal diseases, all negative. There’s a clinical paragraph below the table congratulating Bucky on his clean test results and urging him to practice “safe sex.” 

Steve sets down the papers and looks up. He looks down, looks at the bedroom door, pauses to hear that the shower’s gurgle has now stopped, and pulls his hands off the counter. He tidies the papers and sets them back on top of the envelope. He barely has time to pull his hands away again before Bucky comes through the bedroom doorway with wet feet and wet hair, one towel around his waist and one in his hand.

Bucky stops just past the door frame. He doesn’t look at the letter or the awkward way Steve is hovering both hands in the air, halfway between the counter and his chest. Bucky ducks his head to slide the towel over his hair. He wrings out the ends, squeezing them in his fist, then meets Steve’s eyes. 

The silence kicks the side of Steve’s head, violent and disappointed. Come on, say something. Reassure him. Tell him you love him. Go to him and hold him close. Steve’s heart withers behind his ribs and he does none of those things. He waits for Bucky to speak first.

Bucky seems to hear the silent cue, and says, “I don’t remember any… intimate contact.” The way his eyes flicker on the phrase makes you want to fall at his knees. “But I don’t know what Hydra—” Bucky stops short but doesn’t look away. “I don’t know. And there was a lot of blood. Mine and others. And I don’t know about. The serum. My serum.”  


Steve nods and keeps nodding. He can’t seem to bring himself to life from where he’s rooted to the floor.

“Sorry.” Now Bucky does look down. He lets his hair fall over the sides of his face. “I should have— before we—” He shrugs at the floor and that does it. Steve lurches forward and quietly trips on the edge of the cabinet. He reaches Bucky in three strides and wraps him up in his arms.

“Don’t be sorry,” Steve’s voice is muffled by the warm, wet skin of Bucky’s neck. Steve’s heart is aching fiercely and the sensation makes everything feel more solid. He adjusts his arms so Bucky is locked in close and his hands are spread over Bucky’s ribs. “I love you. I never. I didn’t— Um. I wasn’t expecting. Anything. I just assumed. So. Thank you.” Quieter now. For your better half. Whisper to him. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Steve calls ahead. He hangs up when the receptionist doesn’t believe him. Four hours later, it’s 4:56 pm and they close at 5:00. Steve calls again and waits three rings for an answer.

A young man picks up. Steve explains what he needs and launches into the “I know this is hard to believe, but my name is—” speech. The young man listens silently. Steve barrels through the speech, trails off at the end, and waits for the man to respond.

His optimism is already souring to a defensive brace against the laughter, loud and incredulous, that usually follows. The man just says, “Okay. I get it. Can you come now?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. How far away are you?”

“Uh—” Steve fumbles around in the kitchen drawer for the keys to his bike. “Probably, five minutes? Three minutes? I can, uh—”

“Yeah, fine. Come now. To the back door. Knock twice and wait. Don’t knock again. I’ll come get you when I can.”

“Great.” Something familiar fizzes in Steve’s stomach as he tears out the door. He flies down the staircase and mounts, starts, and shifts his bike into gear in one fluid motion. Steve arrives at the back door two minutes later. He sprints up the rusted metal steps and knocks twice.

Silence. Mission complete. The fizzing drops out to a mellow satisfaction. It feels good to follow orders. To move quickly and single-mindedly. Steve slows his breath and focuses on listening for activity on the other side of the door.

He looks down at the steps. There are shallow puddles of water where the metal has been dented. They look like puddles of rust because the red-brown rot has only crept up where water has collected again and again. 

Steve waits for twenty-two minutes. He doesn’t fidget and never doubts that the door will open. People who give clear orders are true to their word.

The door jerks first. The sound of three poorly aligned deadbolts sliding open echoes through the door it jerks again. This time it swings open just enough for a head to peer out.

The young man has neatly combed, dark red hair and calm eyes. He waves Steve inside. Half the lights in the hallway are off. It’s a modest, office-like space with posters covering the walls and fliers pinned to the backs of the doors. It sounds like they’re the only people in the building. They walk to the end where bright fluorescents pour out an open doorway. The man holds out his hand for Steve to enter first. 

“Hey,” he extends his hand, “I’m Devon.”

“Hi.” Steve shakes his hand but doesn’t introduce himself again.

“So I’m going to ask you a few questions then we’ll do the tests and you’ll get the results in the mail.” Devon has been rifling through a stack of papers on a clipboard. He stops and looks up, “If that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “That’s fine.”

“Alright. First, how old are you?”

“Uh,” Steve looks at his knees. “Well—”

“They’re just ranges,” Devon interrupts. “I’m gonna say 25 to 35. Have you been tested previously?”

“Well. Yes in, uh— Let’s see it would have been 1943. So uh—”

“Okay. I’ll just check ‘No’.”

Steve blushes at his hands in his lap. He wonders how Bucky answered these questions.

“Have you had oral-genital, vaginal, or anal sex?”

“Just the first one.”

“Have you had oral-genital sex with men, women, or both?”

“Men.” Steve looks up at Devon’s face. He has his eyes down and he’s leaning over the counter that runs along the wall, carefully checking boxes on a long form. Even from several feet away, Steve can see that the patient name listed at the top of the intake form is “Jeremy D. Stone.”

“Have you ever used recreational drugs?”

“No.”

“In the past six months, have you had sex with anyone who ever used recreational drugs?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had your penis in a male’s mouth? In other words, receptive oral sex?”

Devon’s tone is even and he doesn’t stutter over the words that make Steve’s face flush. Embarrassment is like a sunburn through a car windshield. Hot enough to make you sweat but there’s not much you can do about it. 

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had a male’s penis in your mouth. In other words, performed oral sex?”

“Yes.” Close your eyes and breathe. You can handle more than blistery skin.

“Have you completed a two shot series of the Hepatitis A vaccine?”

“I don’t know. But uh—”

Devon looks up. Clear eyes and easy brow, like he does this every day. “The serum? Yeah.” His mouth pulls up to one side and he cocks his head. “I’ll check ‘Unsure’.”

“Have you completed a three shot series of the Hepatitis B vaccine?” Devon looks up, pen poised over the paper. Steve shrugs and Devon shrugs back. “Unsure.”

“Have you had a Hepatitis C test in the past 12 months?”

“No.”

“What city were you born in?”

“Brooklyn, New York.”

“I know you answered this, but I need to ask each question on the form. Have you ever had your penis in a male’s anus. In other words, performed anal sex on a male?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had receptive anal sex? In other words, had someone’s penis in your anus?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been told that you have Hepatitis C by a healthcare provider?”

“No.”

“Did you have a blood transfusion prior to 1992?”

Steve pauses to think. It’s tough to remember what happened at the hospital when you were unconscious or delirious. “I’m not sure. I think so, maybe.”

“So… that would have been in the 40s?"

“Well, 20s, 30s, or 40s, yes. Maybe.”

“Well, that question is for transfusion-related Hepatitis C. I have no idea if Hep C was even around… But I’m guessing they would have noticed when you—” Devon waves his hand in explanation, “came out of the ice. So I’m gonna check ‘No’.”

“Okay.”

“When was your most recent syphilis test?”

“Uh. 40s.”

“When was your most recent herpes test?”

“I don’t think I’ve had one of those.”

“Have you ever had a sex partner with a sexually transmitted disease, such as HIV, herpes, syphilis, or hepatitis?”

“No.”

Devon looks up, “Are you guessing or do you know?”

“I know.”

“They’d been tested?”

“He. Yeah. Well. He was. He is now. Tested that is.” Steve shakes his head a little, “He was tested afterwards. Recently.”

Devon’s eyes are glinting, a little amusement under his professional mask. He asks, voice quiet, “Did you ask him to get tested?”

“No,” _He just did it. On his own. For me, I think. I think it was mostly for me. But I think it was a little bit for him too. I’m proud of him for that. And he just left the results out on our counter and I didn’t know what to say. I’m so stupid in love with him and he keeps rebuilding himself and I feel like I should be helping or at least telling him what an amazing job he’s doing, how strong he is. I just want him to know— I just want him to see what I see. That he’s more complete and perfect than he knows. I would do anything for him. I would do—_

Devon just raises his eyebrows once and says through a small smile, “Sounds like a keeper.”

Steve’s throat is tight. He nods twice.

“When was your most recent urine test for chlamydia?”

Steve just shrugs. The pressure on his chest is sharpening. Not here, not here. Pull it together.

“When was your most recent rectal test for chlamydia?”

Steve clears his throat and says, “Not sure.”

Devon goes quiet for a minute. He checks a few boxes without asking any questions. Steve tries to breathe in the pause. Tries to flush out the rush and quiver.

“Have you completed a three shot series of the HPV vaccine?”

“No.”

“Have you recently been forced to have oral or anal sex against your will?”

“No.”

“Are you experiencing any genital itching or discomfort?”

“No.”

“Do you have any sores or rashes on your body? Anywhere, doesn’t have to be the genitals.”

“No.”

“Have you experienced severe pain in your testicles?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced a burning sensation during urination?”

“No.”

“Alright.” Devon straightens up and makes a few more marks on the paper. He reaches for a clear cylindrical cup with a lid and hands it to Steve. “Pee in this. Fill it up but not so much that it overflows. Then put the lid on. Bathroom is right across the hall.”

Steve takes the cup with a nod and pushes out of the examination room. The quiet of the bathroom gives him a chance to roll his shoulders and try to shrug off the tension again. _He’s everything— You don’t understand. He’s everything._ Steve fills the cup and screws the lid on. He washes his hands and opens the bathroom door. 

Across the hall, Devon has readied a silver tray with a swab, a syringe, and a few less familiar implements. He takes the cup from Steve with a purple nitrile glove pulled tight over his skin. He checks the lid’s seal and sets the cup in a thick plastic bag.

Devon gives Steve a quick smile as he strips off the gloves and puts on a new pair. “Alright, take a seat right here,” he gestures to the cushioned examination table. Steve sits on it, slowly, tentatively, testing his weight against the table’s construction. The thin waxed paper over the cushion crinkles under his pants. 

“Can you take off your jacket for me?”

“Sure thing.” Steve shrugs off his coat.

Devon moves quickly. He finds a vein and draws the syringe’s plunger back. Steve feels the prick but doesn’t watch. Devon withdraws the needle and swabs the small red spot. He covers it with a skin-colored band-aid and by the time Steve has pulled his jacket into place Devon has slipped his blood sample and paperwork into the plastic bag.

“Steve. Nice meeting you.” Devon extends his hand again. 

Steve shakes it and holds his eyes. “Same to you. Thanks for your help.”

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

The results come two weeks later. Steve rattles open their narrow mailbox in the building’s entrance way and casually tucks the mail under his elbow. Bucky leads the way up the stairs. They walk through the apartment’s front door and Bucky pauses to stack their boards by the wall.

Steve plucks the letter from the stack of catalogs and credit card offers. He debates whether to leave it on the counter or hand it to Bucky. He tips the envelope in his fingertips, wondering if he should open it first. Bucky turns around before Steve can decide anything. He glances at the envelope and up at Steve’s face.

A pause.

Steve makes it easy. He simply extends his arm. Bucky takes the envelope and opens it with a quick rip of a metal finger. He unfolds the papers and skims the top sheet. His head knocks back so slightly that Steve may be the only person alive who could have caught it. His eyebrows pull down and in just enough to shadow his eyes. Bucky looks at the second sheet and the third.

Steve knows the results. That’s not the point. Bucky drops the papers and walks closer. He stops when their noses are brushing. His eyes are that beautiful, open, vulnerable shade. Bucky touches Steve’s neck and traces the sweep up into his hair. He pushes their foreheads together and whispers, “Who the fuck is Jeremy Stone?”

Steve laughs in a burst, the pressure gauge in his chest giving up, blowing out. Bucky laughs with him. The crinkles around his eyes say _isn’t this life crazy?_ but the hand on the back of Steve’s head, opening and closing like it can’t let go, draws insistent lines with its fingernails that say _thank you. thank you for this._

 

* * *

 

Steve slowly becomes Bucky’s wrench. He tags along to loud races with loud music playing through loudspeakers. He’s just as good a mechanic as Bucky. Or nearly as good. Bucky still leans in, smelling like sweat and sex in a sleeveless undershirt with his racing glove on, and points to the screws that need to be redone, the cables that are getting a little loose. Kneeling in the dirt, smiling up at him, asking him what the torque should be for the bolts that secure the engine block.

The specifics of where Bucky’s bike came from and where it goes are still hazy. He shows up with new parts every once in a while and Steve installs them. Steve tops up the fluids and scrubs off the mud. No questions when questions aren’t called for.

They’re in the staging area where racers mount their bikes and tear out onto the track. Bucky is straddling his bike, hands resting loose in his lap. Steve stands silently to one side holding his helmet. They’re close enough to touch, close enough to raise questions in the minds of others. Those who look to Bucky with a sort of skittish awe. 

Steve’s not sure what the rules are, or how Bucky wants to be seen. He does his best to blend in and follow Bucky’s lead. Steve holds out the helmet and says, “Good luck.”

Bucky turns to him, shifting on the bike seat. His eyes flit over Steve’s features. He replies, just loud enough for Steve to hear, “Thanks.” Bucky catches him by his shirt collar and pulls him down. Steve meets his lips and Bucky pulls him deeper. A kiss and a declaration. Confident, like no one’s watching. He lets Steve go, kick starts the ignition, and rides off.

 

* * *

 

If Bucky is better at easing you into wants you’re afraid to look in the eyes, you’re better at building him a fortress. Dedication to match his effortless talent. You’re better at stacking sandbags and hoarding cans in the basement. You’ll make sure you’re both ready for the flood.

Tackling Bucky in the kitchen. Clumsy and jerky. Picking him up while he’s laughing and groaning at your graceless hands pressed to his ribs. Carrying him to the couch and laying him down. Too careful now, trying to make up for your stumbling.

Steve settles into Bucky’s lap. Bucky hitches his hips to get comfortable under Steve’s weight. Smiling with his hands on Steve’s thighs. Steve pulls a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. He opens it and bring out a few frozen grapes. Steve feeds one to Bucky—who opens his mouth for it without looking down at what he’s being fed—and eats one himself. Bucky chews a few times and raises his eyebrows. He swallows and opens his mouth for more.

Feeding him. Watching him eat. Feeling the heat of his eyes when his mouth drops open and his chilled tongue touches your fingertips. Bucky joins in after a few rounds. He feeds Steve and lets himself be fed.

You took things slow. Built your foundation brick by brick. Now your tower is rising from the ground, up to the trees’ canopy and higher. In this moment, far above the world but not yet in the isolated stretch above the clouds, you can see for miles. _We could go Buck. We could do anything, go anywhere._

Bucky rolls his hips. Steve looks down to see him grinning back up, hair messed against the couch cushion.

“Oh yeah?” Steve says with a smile.

Bucky makes a confused face and rolls his hips again.

“Is that what we’re doing now?” Steve shakes his head and shifts his weight forward, over Bucky’s hips.

Bucky rolls again, slower this time, “Doing what?”

“This.”

Bucky settles into a slow pulse, up and down. The rhythm is enough to make Steve’s stomach kick. 

“What’s happening? Nobody’s doing anything.” Bucky shakes his head with an overly innocent face.

“Uh huh. What’s that—” Steve pauses, looking off to one side, “What’s that rocking?”

“Rocking? Are you sure?” Bucky slides both hands up to Steve’s ass and pulls him a little further forward. Steve’s knees spread wider against the couch back and send a tingling sensation back up the underside of his legs.

“Yeah pretty sure.”

“Uh oh,” Bucky’s straight face finally caves to a crooked grin. “Maybe it’s an earthquake.”

Steve chuckles and Bucky shushes him, “Hey, it could be serious. Maybe we should go huddle in the tub in case the roof caves in.”

Steve laughs harder now. He bends down and kisses Bucky’s temple.

“Yeah, you’re right Steve. The building is shaking.” Bucky reels himself back to mock-serious. “Well, can’t let you get hurt.” He heaves them back and off the couch, pulling Steve over his shoulder. 

“Hey!” Protest and surprise through a choked laugh.

“I hope we have candles! Good thing I know how to filter water!” Bucky runs him through the bedroom doorway, bending at the knees so he doesn’t knock Steve’s head into the frame. Matching your clumsiness with grace. 

“We could be stuck here a while!” Bucky continues his exaggerated urgency as he skids into the bathroom, “Well maybe not. You’ll probably want to go police the chaos in the streets, huh?” Bucky eases Steve backward into the tub and crawls on top of him.

Steve is laughing so hard he can’t catch his breath.

“Shh! Hey! This is serious business…” Bucky drops his voice as he gets closer, eyes roaming over Steve’s face. He’s grinning in spite of himself. “Very serious business.” Bucky kisses him. He pulls back and waits for the tail end of Steve’s breathless laughter to fade, then kisses him again. Soft and slow.

One kiss into the next into the next, never quite parting, melted together in the tub. Steve’s knees are bent and one socked foot is pressed to the tile, one hanging over the tub edge. Bucky still has his boots on. His knees are pressed to the front end of the tub and his feet are resting crooked against the shower wall, one heel against the tub faucet.

They settle like sand on the ocean floor. Steve shifts his hips a little lower and Bucky props himself up on his forearms so he can sink back and down, giving Steve his body weight to push against.

The first step away from you and toward the you that feels and moans and begs is the reappropriation of your body’s tension. It spills out of your neck and shoulders and drains down to your stomach and hips. It jerks and rolls, impatient for more. 

Bucky slips his hand under Steve’s shirt and runs his fingertips up to the bottom of his ribs. Steve huffs a soft sound and it echoes off the bathroom walls. He kicks his foot to the side and hits the faucet lever. Cold water dribbles out of the faucet and onto the backs of Bucky’s knees.

Bucky jerks, “Ah! Wow, really now.”

Steve just laughs and pushes on the lever again, strengthening the flow. Bucky watches him, deeply amused, head cocked to the side, while Steve futzes with the lever between his feet. He manages to pull the stopper that plugs the drain, and push the lever over to the hot side of the dial. 

When Steve eases back and lets his legs relax, Bucky’s eyebrows shoot higher, “Okay, jesus,” he laughs, surprised, “You’re serious.” He pushes back on his elbows to dig his phone out of his pants pocket and throw it to the bathroom floor. Bucky heaves Steve’s hips with one hand to pull out his phone, wallet, and few loose bills and drop them on the floor. Steve lets his weight hang heavy in Bucky’s grip. He watches the grin on Bucky’s face and feels the syrup in his stomach thicken. The water has already crawled most of the length of the tub, wetting the back of Steve’s shirt when Bucky sets him down.

“Steve, this water is freezing.”

“It’s warming up.” Steve’s voice betrays him; his mind is already four steps ahead.

“You’re a horrible romantic.” Bucky smiles down at him, shaking his head. Steve just pulls him down into a kiss. Quiet splashing and rippling sounds are a pleasant white noise.

The water fills in the spaces between Steve’s clothes and his skin. The chill makes his balls contract and sends a shiver up his spine when it reaches his cock. The faucet begins to run hot and a thin sheet of heat skates over the top of the water, drawing a line of heat around Steve’s thighs and circling his chest.

Their pants are soaked through and the easy pressure becomes thick friction when Bucky grinds down. Steve whimpers, hot water rising up to his armpits. He catches Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth and holds him close, panting wet heat, unfocused eyes, while Bucky unzips their pants. 

They let the water run. It floods up to the overflow drain just below the faucet spout and levels out. Sloshing in it now, Steve has one hand in Bucky’s pants, squeezing his ass. The tips of Bucky hair are wet; he lifts a soaked hand to push it out of his eyes and wets the rest. Bucky heaves himself up and lands both hands on Steve’s shoulders. He pushes Steve back and down until his neck sinks under the water line, then his chin, then his lower lip. Steve opens his mouth and lets the water in. Bucky kisses him, deep and open-mouthed, water swirling with breath and Bucky’s pleased groans. 

Hot water continues to pour into the tub and the cooler water drains away. Steve can see a beautiful reddish flush on the high, outside curve of Bucky’s cheeks, just below the corners of his eyes. He kisses the hot skin and Bucky laughs, breathless. He ghosts his fingers over Steve’s stomach. Tension trips, abs jumping, rippling in his wake.

Bucky pulls away, distance when you want that hot, sloppy press. He braces straight arms against the tub edge and looks down. Hair dripping and sticking to his skin. Heat off his skin, heat where his weight presses against you, heat up off the water. So wet each breath is thick. Bucky ducks and opens his mouth. He takes a mouthful of water and lifts his head.

“Did you just swallow that?” Steve’s voice winds out of his chest, rising and falling.

Bucky doesn’t reply. He just looks down with bright eyes.

Steve raises a finger to his lips and pulls the lower one away. Hot water spills out, over Bucky’s chin, down Steve’s hand. Bucky grins with his mouth hanging open, cocky. He takes his time. His eyes look steadier than yours feel and he’s holding your gaze as he dips again and fills his mouth. Steve is quicker to reach for his lips. He runs two fingertips along the lower curve before pulling down. Bucky lets the water trickle out. Hot eyes, still head, Steve’s cock is already full. He takes another mouthful and Steve uses his thumb to let it out. He pushes his finger in as the water comes out, pushes down on Bucky’s tongue until he bows his head toward the water again.

Bucky fills his mouth and comes in close. He lowers himself onto his forearms and lets his hair fall loose into a dark cave around their faces. Steve lifts his head up from the tub edge and hovers close enough to feel the water rush over his lips when his fingers push Bucky’s lips apart. Another mouthful another watery kiss-push-surrender. Steve moans and Bucky’s brow knits. Another mouthful and Steve pushes in with his tongue to share the hot water rush and drain. A deep kiss. Another mouthful into a deeper kiss, his tongue is as hot as the water. Steve’s heart is pounding from the arousal, the heat. Bucky’s hand is on his cock and Steve can’t separate water from touch. His skin is liquid and it lets the water in, loses his sense and structure in the soup. The hot pressure swallows him up. What’s air, what’s water, what’s his hot, hurried breath panting on your skin, his shaky hands pushing and pulling?

Bucky is stroking his cock, kissing his neck. He’s licking the water off Steve’s arms, following his skin underwater, and sucking on his collarbone. He’s too hungry to pull back so Steve pushes him back, one hand on his breastbone. They sit up in the tub and slosh water out onto the floor.

The hot water has exhausted itself and the faucet is plunging cold water to the lowest depths of the tub, swirling up over their skin.

“Let me dry you off,” Steve stands first, and steps out, kicking their discarded phones and his soggy wallet to the far corner of the room. He strips off his shirt and pants while Bucky crawls out of the tub and onto the bathmat. Steve pads out of the room, dripping on the wood floor as he goes in search of their towels. He finds two in the dryer and comes back to discover Bucky exactly where he left him, on his back on the bathmat, legs splayed, chest rising and falling.

Steve kneels and lifts him under his arms. He manages to get a towel around Bucky’s shoulders before pushing him to the side of the tub. Bucky bites his lower lip and Steve gives in. He reaches for Bucky’s underwear, pulls it down to where his unzipped pants hang open, and pushes the rough, wet tangle down to his ankles. His cock looks obscene, so red against a flushed stomach, resting on the crumpled hem of his soaked shirt. Steve takes the head into his mouth. He sucks once to make Bucky’s stomach jump, and pulls off. Bucky’s moaning like Steve is still touching him.

Steve pulls off his own underwear and kneels over Bucky’s lap. He takes both cocks in one hand and strokes, easy and light, thumb brushing over the heads at the top. 

Bucky swallows a sound and tries for words, “You love to tease me.”

“Yeah.” Right in his face. The slick underside of his cock’s head pushes against yours when your hand loses its rhythm. “I wouldn’t do it if I couldn’t get you so worked up.”

“I like it.”

“I know.”

“You know what it does to me though,” Bucky slurs, catching his breath at the end of the sentence.

“What’s that?” Steve kisses him and tightens his grip. The way Bucky’s body flexes tells Steve he’s close.

“I’m just fucking you in my mind.”

Steve laughs at the blunt words and Bucky gives him that cocky, destroyed grin.

“Thinking about how I’m gonna make you shake. Thinking about how you beg when you want it. How I’m gonna hold you down.” Bucky lifts his shoulders away from the tub edge, cocking his head to the side to get closer to Steve’s ear. “You do what you want with me—” Bucky loses it for a second and Steve picks up the pace. When his voice comes back, it’s a growl, “and I’ll do the same.”

Bucky’s hand grips the back of his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. Rough touch, taking what he wants, that’s all it takes. Steve’s body looses its grip and he comes first. He strokes a few more times, slowing down as the skin of his cock grows over-sensitive. He drops himself and grips Bucky, stroking fast again. Steve’s come drips through his fingers and slicks Bucky’s cock.

Steve looks up and holds his blown black eyes. “Tell me how you want to fuck me.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open a little and his eyes roll. “Slow,” he slurs, his body is rocking back and forth with Steve’s touch, “So slow. So slow that you beg.” Bucky lifts his head again. He pushes his forehead to Steve’s and his voice dips, “So slow you start fucking yourself on it. And deep—” Bucky moans, biting his lip, “So fucking deep. Spread you open so I can get deeper. Make you come so hard you beg for more before your cock’s gone soft.”

Steve groans hunger and disbelief at that, pushing their heads together. He slows his strokes. Steve lifts the arm that’s braced against the tub and grabs one of Bucky’s hands. Shaking fingers that fumble and grip. He pushes Bucky’s hand between his legs and guides one finger to his asshole. Steve pushes the pad flat against the opening and Bucky’s head pushes harder into his own. He comes open-mouthed, shuddering full-bodied sounds. Steve strokes him through it and pushes his finger a little harder, until the tip sinks in and Steve has to stop himself, eyes blurring, from thrusting back onto it. 

 

* * *

 

“Steve,” Bucky pushes him up. Chest to chest, heat and friction, playing at playing at playing a little more seriously. The tease and stretch. “Steve, I’m so turned on I can’t feel my toes.”

Steve laughs. A chuckle at first that deepens. He buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder and laughs, chest catching. Bucky laughs too, not quite as loudly, which makes Steve laugh harder.

Waiting is its own reward. And postponing the release pushes you both to get a little higher. Bucky brings him to orgasm, pants off, legs spread, but he’s only touching Steve’s cock, anticipation and exposure of sensitive skin pushing him even closer to the edge. Bucky leans in flattens his tongue against Steve’s the pulse point under Steve’s jaw. Breath hot on your skin, subtle dig of his teeth. No shame, no hesitation. To be wanted, you know you want that. But he’s reaching for something a little more predatory, teeth on your throat like he owns you. It’s like he can see the creature, the you that you won’t quite call ‘you’, chained to its post. He hears it snarling at the end of its leash and simply decides. He’s going to make you feel good. 

 

* * *

 

Despite the overactive nerve receptors in Bucky’s arm, Steve has proven to be the more sensitive of the two. Perhaps his brain simply isn’t wired for all the nerve receptors this body has.

Bucky knows, of course. Because no tiny detail could escape his careful observation. He takes sensation play to ridiculous heights. Shared food, hots and colds, they’re only the beginning.

Bucky tugs off Steve’s shirt. He does it one handed, leaning back so he can watch Steve’s chest appear. Biting his lip like you’re the one seducing him. Bucky swoops in and kisses up his sternum to his neck. He rises with a clinking sound and kisses Steve with his dog tag chain in his mouth. Harsh metal taste and soft tongues.

Bucky surprises him. Quick and increasingly fierce. A kiss with ice on his tongue, sink to the floor, loose your clothes in the shuffle. Bucky unscrews a bottle of oil with one hand and lets it pour over Steve’s chest. He runs one hand up and one hand down, spreading the liquid over Steve’s skin and pulling it over his cock. Jump at the sensation. Bucky’s smooth metal hand stroking, flat palmed with gentle pressure, up his chest, over his nipples, down the sides of his ribs and lifting up under his lower back, lifting him into an arch so he can slick the top curve of Steve’s ass. 

Bucky kneels to one side and watches Steve’s face. His brow furrows when Steve moans, all the encouragement you need to turn it up for him. Panting unevenly, pushing into his slippery hands, moaning half words with your eyes half closed.

Steve feels that beautiful disassociation before orgasm. Where his skin is whole and complete and alive and there is nothing at all inside. Just a hollow shell of pleasure in the build, nerves quieting themselves, buzzing with tension. Deep breaths to slow the tip from rise to fall. Steve hits the top and orgasm reclaims the space his body has abandoned. It floods bright, always brighter than you remember, with peaks at the base of your cock and under your heart. It reaches the ends of Steve’s body and pushes past them, out through his skin and into the space just above it. Buzz and heat, can’t think. Pleasure paints the vacant walls and leaves you shaking as it drains.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is sitting on the couch with his feet curled in by his hips. He has a blanket tucked around his shoulders that flows over his bent knees and drops to the floor. Steve adjusts the laptop screen from its perch on the wide windowsill and walks back to the couch.

Bucky’s eyes flick from the screen, where a strong man competition is playing, to meet Steve’s gaze. He grins and drops his chin a little lower into the blanket.

“Hey,” Steve slides onto the couch, right next to him.

“Hey.”

“Are you cold?”

Bucky turns to look at him, “A little.”

“Should we turn up the heat?”

“No.” Bucky’s straight face is incredible. Only the sparkle in his eyes to give him away.

“Alright, we’ll just have to snuggle up.”

Bucky snorts as he lifts the corner of the blanket, “Snuggle up? Wow, Rogers. Talk dirty to me.”

Steve scoots closer and tucks the blanket into place under his hips. He laughs against Bucky’s neck. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and tugs until Bucky slides into his lap. He settles, hands resting on Bucky’s stomach, and turns his attention back to the screen.

Bucky sinks into him. When their breathing has settled and deepened, Steve rucks up the hem of Bucky’s shirt and strokes his stomach along the waistband of his trousers. Bucky hums. Steve’s fingers slow over the line of soft hairs that trail down from his navel. He raises them with his fingernails and smoothes them back into place with his thumb.

Steve reaches for Bucky’s belt buckle and one tug makes Bucky’s hips lift. Steve mumbles something about sharing body heat that Bucky snickers at. He undoes the belt, unzips his pants, and pushes everything down to Bucky’s knees. Steve runs his fingers lightly up Bucky’s thighs and returns to his stomach caresses. 

Two minutes, six minutes, twenty minutes, stretch. Exposed skin and obvious intention. Bucky’s cock thickens and pulls. It hardens and arcs in the most beautiful shape nature ever sculpted, Steve can see it twitch under the blanket. The head comes to rest on the line of hairs and Steve lets his fingers brush it, as if by accident.

“Oh,” he turns his head to smile-mumble-whisper into Bucky’s ear, “What’s this?”

“Jesus Christ, Steve.” Bucky shifts his hips and Steve traces the outline of his cock against his stomach.

“Yes?”

Bucky squirms and Steve lifts his hips into the shift of weight in his lap. Bucky is patient but not endlessly so. Another ten minutes and he’s throwing off the blanket and rounding on Steve. 

Hands under your knees, hitching your legs up and folding you into the cushions. That familiar release into his grip. Kissing and pushing, Bucky’s cock finding a rhythm against Steve’s thigh. Bucky frees a hand and grips Steve, squeezing his cock, palming his balls. He slips his fingers lower and Steve lifts his knees even higher. Encourage him, show him. Spread yourself and beg. Who’s holding the leash? Bucky brings his hand to his mouth and wets two fingers. Mouth open, eyes dark, he drops them and presses them flat to Steve’s asshole. 

Steve inhales, shaky sound, and breathes out. He feels the muscle give against Bucky’s pressure. Bucky breathes out in a huff and shoves off the couch. He falls to his knees on the wood and finds the back of Steve’s knees with his hands.

He’s always falling forward when he wants you. Close, too close before he can line himself up. Pressing his face to Steve’s balls, moaning and mouthing. Shaking his head. 

One dark look, a flash of his eyes as he sinks. Half a second to realize what’s coming before everything is hot and wet and liquid. Steve’s body contracts, abs jumping, lungs pushing out a shocked, pleading sound. The rush sends his body panting, mind blanking. Steve’s hips roll and he pushes down, coaxing Bucky’s tongue deeper. A muffled groan from between his legs. Steve can feel him breathing hard, nose pressed to the skin under his balls. 

Still yourself and breathe out slow. Release the tension that coils you up to orgasm. Stretch and give. Bucky pulls away for a couple of open mouthed kisses, tracing the crease with his tongue. Steve strokes himself slowly, making sounds he’s never heard before. Their eyes catch when Bucky ducks again. Pushing deeper this time, tongue fucking in and out.

Steve comes, loose fist, slow strokes, body rolling into the wave, a ball of loose muscles strung out between Bucky’s hands, a mess of wet and flushed, with his hand on the back of Bucky’s head.

 

* * *

 

Steve comes flying down the fire escape steps. He jerks the window open with one hand and tumbles through it. Bucky looks up, sharp eyes and tense shoulders, from the stove.

A breath. Now break his heart.

“It’s Natasha.”

Bucky drops the spoon in the pot. He turns to face Steve. You have no time to parse the look on his face.

“They’ve got her.”

Bucky walks straight toward the bedroom door. He pulls it open and disappears through the doorway. Steve follows, arriving at the threshold in time to see Bucky tugging his black duffels out of the closet. He upends them and rifles through the contents. Bucky strips in the middle of the room and pulls on black combat pants. He slides his one-armed jacket over a shirt and the way his metal arm gleams, muscled and bullet-proof at the shoulder, takes your breath. 

Leaving you speechless, but not with his beauty. Bucky holsters guns on his hips, slips extra magazines into his pockets, sheathes knives on his back. He pulls a creased black cloth from the pile and draws it into a long triangle.

Bucky ties the ends at the back of his neck. Only then, when his face is hidden and his eyes are closed off, when he’s covered in armor with a gun in his hand, does he look up and meet your eyes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please try frozen grapes. They are amazing. Even if you do not like grapes. First, get some grapes (I think green ones work best). Second, put them in your freezer. Third, wait a while. Fourth, eat them!


	8. Put On Your Gloves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! not too long a wait for a new chapter, right? ;) thanks for sticking with me buddy pals!
> 
> Soundtrack suggestion!  
> heart Cooks Brain by Modest Mouse  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2qgEl4KWB4

Black gloves. Like a slap to the face. 

They slip right back on. Fingers snug in the leather. Like you’re the same man you were. Like you’ve always been. All muscles atrophy with disuse, but not yours. The eternal ripple of youth and violence pulling shapes under your skin.

He touched those shapes. You let him touch; let’s not forget. You pulled up your shirt and let him kiss, lips on your skin. All that tenderness just spilled out of him, poured onto you. Honey kisses, too soft. Faith and devotion lifted you up, like they didn’t know about, had never felt, inevitable gravity. His unflinching eyes pulled you to your feet and you started the long climb together. Up from the bottom through the smoke, until the smoke became clouds and the shriek became a warning bell that you lost on the breeze.

The thing about climbing, the thing about gloves, is that everything goes around and around. You climb then fall. You climb to fall. You climb and fall. One then the other. Day then night then day. Around and around. The only man who suffers is the one who thought he could bid the darkness goodbye forever. The man who thought it was a matter of strength, who thought it was in his hands. You’d laugh but it’s a waste of time. Put on your gloves.

Bucky looks down at his boots. He breathes in slow and lets the pressure in his chest push the air back out. There are no nerves or butterflies, just a long, ready wait. Dull and numb are for men who feel or who search for feeling. If you just shut it out, there’s nothing. No void, no ache. Keep your hand on your gun. Just shut it out, don’t look at him. 

A helicopter to a jet, full of agents in black who know Bucky’s name. They give Bucky two choices: a parachute or a webbed flight suit. He shakes his head and goes back to filling the magazine pouches on his belt. 

“Hey,” Steve speaks from the next seat over.

Bucky looks up but doesn’t turn his head. 

“Buck,” his voice wobbles and Bucky’s brow knits. _Don’t. Don’t. Not now. Keep your head down. Steve, goddamn it._ But you can’t pull back now. You’ll have to hear him out.

“Bucky, listen.” Steve waits but Bucky keeps his eyes straight ahead. “I wouldn’t ask you—”

_Keep your fucking head down or you’ll snap your neck in the fall. Steve, shut up, shut up._

“I wouldn’t ask you, if it wasn’t the only way. I can’t say no when it’s— when we’re—”

_I don’t blame you. You are what you are. Put your fucking head down. I can’t look at you and slice a throat a minute later. Let me go._

Steve shifts and puts his hand in the gap between the seats, just resting against Bucky’s thigh. “Thank you,” Steve whispers, “for coming.”

_I never asked you to stop. So shut up. We’re here._ Clouds to smoke. _I’m not doing you any favors, just watching your back. It’s not a choice._

They fall out of the plane and tear through the sky on the way down. Falling long enough to hit terminal velocity and right themselves in the sky. Boots first into the ocean, a few hundred yards away from an oil platform with all its lights switched off. The water cuts through Bucky’s clothes and bites at his skin, so cold it makes his breath catch. 

But you’re not awake yet. Still ready, still waiting. Still quiet and still. It’s not until you climb up the algae-slick ladder rungs and draw your gun. A man pivots in a crouch, twenty yards ahead and behind a shipping container. The barrel of his gun swings out from the shadow and recedes, refocuses on your silhouette.

Draw your gun and fire. Crack. Through the white-noise ocean waves crashing under the moon. The gun clatters as its owner falls back on the deck. You don’t see his face, don’t see the blood, don’t hear his last breath, don’t have to.

Breathe in. Hit the bottom. The ground you thought would never come under the smoke and the clouds. Death in a flash from muscles that never slacken. It’s dark down here, feels familiar. Nothing but soot in the air. Breathe it in and find, to your foolish dismay, that you don’t choke. Black dust in your lungs again. Breathe deep, pull it in. Can’t hurt you any worse than it already has. 

His metal arm barely recoils as the shots ring out. Helmets hit the deck and blood pools. Steve cuts straight for the gangplanks that lead to the underwater derricks and Bucky covers him. They find Natasha tied up in a fresh water holding tank. Up to her shoulders in water, hair dull with dried blood. 

She sees Steve and sneers. Steve wades toward her and Bucky stays at the tank hatch, keeping watch. He can’t hear the words they trade but Natasha looks furious. So much death, but it never seems to shutter eyes you recognize.

Something explodes under the northwest platform pillar and the structure begins to lean. Steve and Natasha hurry up the slanting, slippery side of the tank. Bucky leads them back out of the tank, up the angled ladder. Picking up the pace as the world tilts toward the sea. Bucky sees the break coming about ten seconds before it snaps. He scrambles up, over an I-beam, and drops out the bottom of the twisting metal toward the sea. 

Underwater with his eyes open, he looks up to see a second splash and then a third. They kick to the surface and swim west. Above the water, the creaking and twisting is deafening. When the platform finally snaps in two and crashes into the sea, they ride the wave of displaced water away from the wreck.

In the bobbing waves, she catches your eye. There’s pity there. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky disappears between the plane and the base. He slips away when Steve’s attention is elsewhere, easy as it’s always been. He waits on the ground, elbows loose around his knees, by a helicopter under a tarp, on the edge of Fury’s camp. Eyes up on the moon. What country is this? It’s funny, the soot goes in like nothing but doesn’t ever seem to come back out. 

An hour or so pass in the dim light. Then Steve just walks out into the clearing and says, “Buck?”

Bucky stands up.

Steve’s shoulders are tight and his brow is creased. “We’re going home.”

No discussion. Why should there be? No debrief, no waiting, no negotiation. A pilot appears and uncovers the helicopter. They climb inside for a few pre-flight checks and lift off the ground. The world tilts. Life first, then mission. Is that right? Us first, then others.

Steve is giving the pilot directions, draining anger and exhaustion off his soggy clothes. Bucky still has at least half a dozen weapons that he didn’t have when they left the apartment. 

It’s different. You ache from the center of your chest, down your stomach, to the metal seat. You ache in your knees and through your boots. You ache through the mess of tangled, salty hair that swings in front of your eyes. It’s different now. Ten dead, dozens more bleeding. You smell like sweat and explosive charge.

After the helicopter, a truck. Then a cargo plane. They’re the only two people in its hollow body, wedged into seats between pallets and crates. 

Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s thigh. Bucky shifts, unbuckles the seatbelt across his lap and stands. He walks toward the cockpit and studies the labels on the boxes. He keeps his head down and mouth closed. Steve doesn’t follow him.

It’s different now and you’re lonely. Immediately. Like a broken bone. Rip that fragile silk you were so afraid to weave. Point to the tear and say _see, I told you. I told you it was too soft for us._

The dread doesn’t come roaring back; that’s a shame. There’s a heavy little nook behind your breastbone where it fits just right. Where you can carry it for weeks and weeks. But no dread this time. It all cycles around, night to day to night. Nothing to dread because you’ve been here before. Just keep your filthy hands in your lap so the coal dust doesn’t spread.

Steve tries again when they’re in an unmarked van with tinted windows, in the final stretch between the airport and home. He picks up Bucky’s still-gloved hand, kisses the knuckles, and sets it down. Bucky doesn’t react.

_If I was a better man, Steve._ Eyes ahead, hands still. Don’t move.

 

* * *

 

It’s difficult to keep your distance when you have nowhere to go, nothing to do. 

Steve keeps to himself with his eyes on his computer screen. They eat near each other. One standing at the counter, one sitting on the couch. The two mattresses on the floor drift apart a few inches and no one pushes them back together. Bucky takes one and Steve takes the other. 

Both of you seem to know, instinctively, not to speak. The distance is sharp, even jagged. But the silence doesn’t feel like anything. Two days avoiding each other. Two more watching movies. Another day running errands and cleaning the apartment floor. 

On the morning of the sixth day, Bucky doesn’t get out of bed. He just opens his eyes. Mid-morning winter sun through the three southern windows. There are a few specks of dust on the floor. Maybe weightless ones that jumped up from the sweep of damp paper towels and settled again later in the day. The sunlight catches on them and makes them glow. 

Anxiety is a twisted ankle, not a bullet wound. There’s nothing new and nothing missing. No shrapnel or shredded tissue. It’s all the same, all the same you, just twisted around. Taken right to the breaking point when, suddenly, your body remembers itself. Instinct kicks in and you catch yourself with your other foot before you fall. 

Anxiety is a twisted ankle because you can’t see it. Its only evidence is your voice, hoarse with surprise— _it hurts._ Stay down. Stay in the bed. Covers up under your chin. Close your eyes and open them. Close and open. Breathe and wait. Bucky drifts in and out of sleep. Each time he wakes, his chest is tight.

Steve gives him until the afternoon clouds shift everything in the apartment to shades of blue and grey. He walks over the mattresses and lays down right behind Bucky. He pulls Bucky back into a warm spoon, settles his nose and lips against the nape of Bucky’s neck. They sleep through the afternoon and the night. 

Steve wakes him up by talking to him. He just starts talking, out of nowhere, as if they’d been mid-conversation. “Hey Buck,” he says to Bucky’s skin.

Bucky wakes with a snap.

“I was thinking,” Steve swallows. His voice is clear, as though he’s been awake for a while, “that maybe we could go to Canada. In, I don’t know, a few weeks. Just to visit. Go check it out."

Bucky pulls himself up on his forearms and turns around so they’re face to face. The hurt and shock of falling fade pretty quickly and take with them your memory of that pain. Then the ache rises, falls, rises, falls. 

“Maybe Toronto? That’s pretty close. Maybe Quebec and you can lead me around with your French. Or Vancouver? Long flight and get away for a while?”

Bucky snuggles in, ducking his head under Steve’s chin, pressing himself flat to Steve’s chest, his stomach. The ache feels like it’s ebbing a little lower each time, but it’s hard to tell. Must be, because now the water level has sunk below the banks and you can see everything that’s snagged in the muddy reeds.

“Any of those, I think, would be nice. We could always drive. That could be fun too.”

Dredge it up. You’re disgusted with yourself. For the panic and the lethargy. For every emotion you’ve ever had, it seems. You’re disgusted that you can’t do what he can, what he needs you to do. You’re sick of rocking in the waves and of your weak stomach. 

Bucky furrows his brow against Steve’s chest and sits with the idea. He pulls it out so he can see its size and strength. He rinses it in the murky water and sets it in the grass.

Bucky pulls back. He looks up to find Steve’s eyes and says, “Kiss me.” _—like you love me and nothing is wrong. Like you don’t have to look over or look past or accept. Like there are no broken pieces. Like we’re never going out there again._

Steve’s face crumples a little, but he ducks his head. A single, warm kiss and a pause. Lips just an inch apart, breathing the same air. Bucky leans in and kisses him again. So many days without a touch and now kisses have got you spinning. Breathe out quick through your nose, a rush to match the flood in your stomach. Steve brings his hand to the back of Bucky’s head. Kissing deep and open-mouthed, tongues so slow like you’d forgotten what it felt like.

Bucky’s body seems to jump outside itself. An electric current quivers down from the top of his head, racing over his skin. Want, thick and insistent, flares up and knots itself. _Touch me. Fuck, touch me everywhere._

Bucky moans, Steve’s hands start to wander. Pressure and rhythm. Bucky kisses Steve’s chest, nearly drowns in how good he smells. They move with one purpose, until Steve’s on his back, folded in half, and Bucky is eating him out. A sloppy kiss and thrust deeper with your tongue. 

Steve’s groaning with every breath. He has one hand over Bucky’s where it’s gripping his hip, and the other over his eyes. His cock swells and drags heavy over his stomach when Bucky pulls him closer. He’s so loose in your arms. Like you’re not the only one who’s been fantasizing about doing this again. 

 

* * *

 

Sex first, then words. Talking follows the intimate path you plowed through the mess. 

Steve holds him, a pair of crossed legs resting crooked on top of another pair of crossed legs. Bucky leans forward until his head rests on Steve’s shoulder. He runs light hands up Bucky’s back and makes his body sway slightly, side to side. He sneaks under the hem and scratches with his short nails until Bucky rucks up his shirt to ask for more.

And if the clouds are any indication, it turns out that the long climb back up isn’t so long after all. Maybe it only took so long the first time because you kept stopping to look down, to measure your progress with the ladder rungs.

Just climb, eyes up. Just keep climbing and find your rhythm. Make breakfast. Sit on the floor. Laugh and coast back and forth on your skateboard on the floor. Open and close the windows. Go grocery shopping so Steve can tuck his fingers in around all of your jacket’s openings. He touches the back of your neck, reaches up your sleeves. Turn up the heat just to feel the room warm. Shower and revel in the feeling of smooth metal through your hair. You come back and come back and come back. You shut the windows of your lighthouse, stop trying to warn others about your rocky shore, and just live. 

 

* * *

 

A knock at the door.

Bucky jumps for his phone and pulls up the feed from the camera he installed in the peephole months ago. The unsmiling face that appears sends nausea prickling up his throat. He drops the phone on the bed and looks over at Steve in the kitchen. 

Split-second communication has always been effortless for you two. Words are a luxury at war. But this is a complicated moment. Bucky’s stomach drops and he suddenly has a lot to say with no time to say it. In a move so unusual for him that it makes Bucky dizzy, he just shakes his head. Steve nods in reply.

Steve pulls out his phone. Another knock at the door. A tense pause. Steve lifts the phone to his ear. Bucky’s stomach has knotted itself and some instinct is begging him to escape with Steve up to the roof.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks the phone.

Bucky can hear Fury’s muffled voice through the door but can’t make out the words

“I don’t know what you thought that would change.”

Bucky draws his knees into his chest and quickly releases them. He stands, lifts his hands to his hips, and drops them back to his sides. The rumble of Fury’s voice through the door feels like the early vibrations of something terrible coming over the horizon.

“No,” Steve shakes his head, “Listen.”

Fury falls silent. Bucky looks at the door.

“We’ve talked about this before. I’ve had a lot of time to think. I need to be clear. I do it for me. For my conscience. I’m done taking orders, even good ones.” Bucky looks up to see Steve watching him. “So when you want us, you send a request and we’ll give you an answer.” 

“You pull that emergency shit again, Nick— She wasn’t even—” Steve stops hard, looks down, breathes out. “Let’s understand each other. You’ve got men and women willing to put their lives on the line for privacy and security and possible threats. I’m not one of them.” Something flutters down the bridge of Bucky’s nose and his eyes begin to fill. “I’ll be there when you need me. I’m the judge of that now.”

A tear rolls down Bucky’s skin. He blinks and another chases it down. Steve looks up and his eyes are rimmed red.

“That’s all I have to say. I can’t keep flipping the coin when I have so much to lose.”

 

* * *

 

A kiss that feels wonderful, a serendipitous melt and tug you discover one afternoon. A press of closed lips that opens to tongues pushing, filling the gap before there’s quite enough space for them. That sensory rush of not really knowing what is where. Do it again. And again. _Fuck._ Do it again, deeper. Suck his lower lip when you pull back. Breathing hard. Until you’re pulsing, tongue pushing into his mouth. Swearing slurred sounds at the heat in your stomach, the swell of your cock.

Sex is exploration. Try it and try it again and again. Until you’re so close to the edge you can’t see straight. Trying to put words on the process, tidy it all up into a list, but you’ve lost your sense. _What feels good? Everything? What do you like? All of it. Every sensation. The breeze through the window. The feel of the sheets. Your hand on my foot when you’re hitching my knee up. The way your laugh vibrates through your back. Every single thing._

 

* * *

 

Some of the thickest swells come when he’s not touching you at all, or barely. Bucky discovers a small, handheld hair trimmer plugged into the bathroom outlet. He tugs it out of the wall and walks to where Steve is sprawled on the couch.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s this?”

“Hair trimmer.”

“What’s it for?”

“Trimming hair.” Steve smiles crookedly.

“Did you buy it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Uh—” Steve’s eyebrows lift a little, “I thought you might like it.”

“I use a straight razor.”

“Oh, yeah, not for your face.”

Bucky shakes his head once, “What?”

Steve stands up, “I’ll show you.” He leads Bucky back to the bathroom and plugs the trimmer in again. “Take off your pants.”

Bucky laughs, confused, then sees the look on Steve’s face. “Oh— Jesus.” He unbuckles his belt, undoes the top button, and unzips his fly. Bucky shakes his head, “Wow. Okay.”

“Do you want to do it or do you want me to do it?” Steve lifts one hand in a nervous gesture, “Or if you want to do it at all. We definitely don’t have to—”

“I want you to do it.” Words out Bucky’s mouth without a second thought. 

Bucky undresses. The cool air makes his skin raise goosebumps. Already, his cock is thickening. His legs brush his balls as he steps out of his trousers, sending tender shockwaves through sensitive skin. 

Once naked, Bucky straightens up and asks, “How do you want me?”

“Maybe sit on the counter?”

Bucky climbs onto the bathroom counter and lets his knees drop open. Steve turns on the clippers. He works in from the outside, sliding the cool metal guide along Bucky’s skin. Shoulders slouched against the cold mirror, head back on the glass. Bucky melts into Steve’s gentle touch as he spreads each inch of skin taught to make a clear path for the blade.

“Hey,” Bucky closes his eyes to speak.

“Hey,” Steve is so close his breath ghosts warm over Bucky’s cock.

“How did we touch each other before? In Brooklyn.”

“Uh—” Steve pauses his grooming.

Bucky opens his eyes and asks again, “Like, how did we— Did we roughhouse?”

“Oh. Yeah. As kids we did.”

“And when we grew up?”

“I don’t know—” Steve goes back to clipping, “You put your arm around my shoulders a lot.”

“Yeah? How?”

“I’ll show you when I’m done.”

Steve finishes in silence and wipes Bucky off with a wet cloth.

“Alright, stand up.”

“No, get this too.” Bucky slouches lower on the counter and pulls his knees up.

Steve looks down at the spread of his ass and back up. “Okay,” he says, sounding dry-mouthed. He turns the clippers back on and shaves the rest of it, from Bucky’s perineum to the tuft just past his asshole. He’s careful in the creases and his touch lingers.

Feeling exposed and on display. Bucky flirts with the idea of asking Steve for something more, pushing his head down until he opens his mouth and uses his tongue.

Steve seems to consider it too, because he pauses, clipper in hand, to kiss the crease of Bucky’s thigh. Steve steps back and holds out his hands. Bucky takes them and eases off the counter. His erection is immediately obvious between them. Bucky bites his lip but Steve keeps his eyes up.

“Come here.”

Bucky takes a step closer. 

“Now put your arm around my shoulders. Not soft. Like how two guys… who weren’t us would do it.”

Bucky laughs at that. _And maybe two guys who were both clothed, with soft dicks. Is that what you meant, Steve?_ He says nothing and tries it, hooking his arm around Steve’s neck and pulling him in.

They end up looking at each other, a few inches between their noses. Steve says, “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

Bucky’s eyes drift. “And we never kissed.”

Now Steve laughs. “No.”

“Was I careful with you?”

“No, not really,” he grins, “But a lot of that was probably self-defense. I’d have beat you up if you were soft on me.”

“Oh really,” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Yes!” Steve’s eyes widen with conviction. Still defending his smaller self, like his pride’s on the line. “You cleaned my cuts, but you weren’t gentle. You poured on the alcohol and tied the bandages tight.”

Bucky nods and says, “I’m a little afraid of hurting you.”

Steve blinks, nods, blinks. He says nothing.

“Maybe I wasn’t soft on you, but we weren’t what we are now.” Bucky is still holding him close. “I’m afraid to hurt you. Like it’s under my skin. I’m afraid you’ll bruise. And my mind knows you’ll be fine but I still feel it. Afraid.” _And I’m afraid of what you’d think of me. If I bruised you, if I hurt you. Not that you’re any good at noticing when you’re hurt. But if I lost your trust? There’s no way back from that._

 

* * *

 

They spend most mid-mornings in a tangle. Then one day a late start has Bucky pulling on his pants and shirt for the first time around two in the afternoon. No sooner does he have his shirt over his head then Steve comes around with other ideas. So he likes you half-dressed?

Bucky starts putting his clothes on in shifts. Getting out of bed to pull on jeans, leave the zipper gaping. Over to the couch to pull on boots, laces stay untied.

Lay back on the cushions, like you’ve got nowhere to go. Now Steve is close, talking and touching your bare stomach. Lazy kisses, now he’s in your lap.

 

* * *

 

There’s always something in the wings, waiting for its cue. The wait is a strange and constant partner. You get off on the wait but can’t wait for it to be over. You’re patient men, for whatever reason. Who knitted their own pleasure to the hands of the clock. But time isn’t the constraint it once was. Nor is death so close. Maybe time’s threat made you pull back on your leash, drag your feet just because you could. Maybe subversion always feels this good.

What are you waiting for right now? With your hair hanging in your eyes and your stomach heaving? His fingers inside you.

Steve licks his finger and presses it flat to the opening. Bucky makes a pleading sound and rolls his hips. _Come on, come on._ Deep breath and shudder it out. Steve circles his fingertip and leans in. He kisses at Bucky’s open lips and eases inside. Bucky’s muscles flex. Another deep breath and they slacken. Steve hums and Bucky moans into his mouth. 

Everything is sharp sensation and murky pleasure. Bucky puts a metal hand on Steve’s chest and pushes. “Alright, fuck—” his voice is wrecked and Steve laughs. “Get the uh— fucking—” Bucky swats at the floor with a loose hand, “lube.” _Get your head on straight. Let’s go._

Steve pulls out a clear tube Bucky hasn’t seen before.

“What’s that?”

“Lube.”

“New?”

“Yeah. Better for—” Steve gestures down at him, “Better for this.”

“Oh really?” Bucky raises his eyebrows.

“Really.”

“So you’re buying lube now.”

“I’m buying all kinds of things,” Steve grins, looks down at his fingers as he slicks them, “on the internet.”

Bucky laughs and Steve cuts him off with a hint of pressure. Bucky breathes in slow. Steve pushes in at the height of it.

“Okay okay okay,” Bucky puts his hand out, fingers spread. “Jesus, fuck. Stop.”

Steve begins to pull out and every muscle in Bucky’s body clenches.

“No,” Bucky grabs his wrist, “Don’t go anywhere. Just stay there. How deep are you?”

Steve looks down, “Maybe halfway.”

“Are you serious?” Bucky feels around the opening, “Jesus Christ. Feels like your whole goddamn hand.”

Steve snorts. Bucky looks up at him laughing quietly, biting his lips to hold it in.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky smiles and shakes his head, “Hold still.”

It doesn’t take long. Maybe three or fourth breaths for his body to adjust. Bucky strokes his cock once and groans. One new sensation changes everything. Pleasure swirls back from his cock and blooms out, down his legs. Everything between his hips feels thick and full and electric. 

“More,” Bucky begins his slow inhale at the end of the word and Steve pushes in. Bucky feels Steve’s knuckles come to rest on his skin when Steve stills. Bucky breathes a while longer, stroking his cock lightly. “Okay, pull out and come in again.”

Steve nods and looks down. Bucky watches his careful eyes and holds his tongue when Steve takes twenty seconds to accomplish what could take five. “Ready?” He looks up and Bucky nods. Steve covers his finger in lube again and slides back in. 

Bucky’s jaw drops and his stomach jumps. “More,” he pants.

“More fingers?”

“Yeah.”

Steve positions his middle finger at the opening and starts to slip it inside.

“Holy shit,” Bucky grabs for Steve, “Holy shit. Don’t move. Don’t move.”

“Okay—”

“Stop moving.”

“I’m not moving,” Steve whispers, badly covering another bout of laughter. 

“Fuck.” Bucky breathes out shaky. He feels like he could come from the stretch of his ass and the friction of his cock resting on his stomach alone. “Oh my god, Steve.” Bucky shakes his head, “Steve.”

“Yeah?” Steve is looking down at him with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

“Yeah. Ho-oly shit.”

Bucky breathes curses and Steve works his middle finger inside. When he’s got two fingers up to the knuckle, he shifts a little. Bucky feels him moving, curling his fingers. A quiet sensation sparks into a flame, a rush of sensation from deep inside. Everything seems to dig a little deeper, pull a little harder on his over-taxed nerves. As if a magnet had pulled every cell in his body into alignment, all straining up toward a common cause.

Bucky falls into a quick pant he can’t control. Each breath carries a helpless sound. He looks up at Steve with wide eyes and squeezes the base of his cock. What was that? A little soot in the air? Must be working its way back up. Bucky strokes once, slow up and down with his mouth thrown open and comes over his fist.

 

* * *

 

“Talk to me. Tell me what you dream about.”

“What?” Steve’s voice is hoarse. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth. _Look at that pale skin, Jesus Christ._

“I see you—” Bucky lowers his head and kisses Steve’s neck, “watching. Tell me what you see in your head. What you want me to do.” Bucky sucks at his skin, “What you want to do to me.”

Steve swallows and starts, “I don’t know, Buck. I like everything you do—”

“Like what?” Bucky sits back a little and takes himself in hand. He holds Steve’s eyes and strokes.

Steve tucks his chin toward his chest. He’s slouched against the couch back with Bucky in his lap.

“I like when you put me on my knees.”

Bucky nods, grinning, “I like you on your knees.” He rests his free hand on Steve’s shoulder. “What do you like about it?”

“I just like—” Steve tucks Bucky’s hair behind his ear, “When you move me around. Put me where you want me. When you hold me down.”

Bucky hums and closes his eyes. “What else?”

“When you boss me around.”

“Wha-at?” Bucky makes a quiet, incredulous sound. He’s already losing clarity to pleasure. 

“Yeah, when I’ve got my fingers in your ass.”

“Mm—” Bucky curls forward, rests his forehead on Steve’s, “You’re good at that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Really good.”

Steve huffs a laugh, “It’s not hard.”

Bucky’s breath catches, he groans, “Takes a special touch.”

Steve laughs, his eyes on Bucky’s lips.

“What else?”

“Well,” Steve’s eyes are blown, “After I come. You’re so— I don’t know. You’re so cocky.”

Bucky snorts, cracking a smile.

“In a good way,” Steve says with a smile. “Like you’re so pleased with yourself. You’re all handsy and you just want to wrap me up and lay around.”

Bucky nods with closed eyes. He slows his hand, resting in the valley where just about anything would make him come.

“And when I try to get up you grab my wrists.”

Bucky opens his eyes.

Dark eyes, face in shadow, like words said here don’t live on, “I like that.”

Bucky comes slowly. Three pulses of come from his cock, dripping down his fingers onto Steve’s stomach.

“Let me suck you off,” Bucky groans before he’s finished cleaning up.

“No,” Steve sinks lower on the couch, “Put your tongue in me.”

Bucky grins, crooked and dark, “You like that?”

“Yeah, please.” Steve drags his fingers up Bucky’s lower back, “Please.” 

 

* * *

 

It’s hard to relax. And even if you get your always-ready muscles to give in, it’s difficult to keep them there. Not impossible, but tricky. 

Bucky tries explaining this to Steve. “—I just don’t think my body wants to— let anything in.”

Steve nods. “Makes sense. I know I feel generally more at ease when I’m holding the shield.”

Bucky hums.

“Are you, uh— on alert? Are you worried about—”

Bucky shrugs, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“If you wanted to try something. Maybe just having something nearby? The shield, maybe a weapon of yours. Or holding one. That would be fine with me—”

Bucky’s head snaps up. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Okay,” Steve’s hands jump into the air, palms out, “Yeah, of course. Of course. Whatever you need.”

Nausea and horror sweep through Bucky’s body. He looks down to steady himself. Bucky swallows and tries to put some words together to cover the silence. “I mean. Thanks. For letting me know you’d be okay—”

“Buck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No it’s fine. I just— I can’t. Do that.” Tell him what you mean. “That would make it worse.”

 

* * *

 

You can’t get enough. It makes you feel strange and gluttonous. Not so different from past hungers he’s introduced and left unsatisfied. Even when you’re groaning in his ear first thing in the morning, you’re begging for more by dinner time. You’re spreading your legs and guiding his hand. Just cleaning yourself in the shower gets you hard.

Steve follows you around like you’ve got him on a tether. He shakes his head with a smile when you melt, when you ask. Like he can’t believe it either. 

Steve buys gifts. Plugs in every size from a slim finger-width up through a thick silicone cock with veins running up the shaft.

You haven’t been quite this hazy since before you could touch him, when you were whispering in his ear in a dark theatre. But back then you couldn’t have, wouldn’t take, what you wanted. Now, you get what you want the second you ask.

In the truck on an errand to Maryland for bike parts. There’s a bottle of lube in the glove box and that’s all the reason you need. Pull off the road and into a thicket of thin brown branches that cover the windshield.

Bucky opens the glove box and throws the lube in Steve’s lap. He leans in and whispers, “Finger me.”

Steve reaches for his belt without a word.

Bucky ends up straddling his lap with his trousers crumpled in the footwell. Kissing Steve’s temple as he slicks his fingers. When Steve takes too long rubbing and stroking along the opening, Bucky pushes his hips back until he gets what he wants. Steve’s finger sliding up the inside, rippling that open sensation up Bucky’s nerves again.

Wait for your muscles to ease. Then flex your legs and lift up. Sink back. Moving your body to chase sensation has always felt better than laying back.  

Steve’s hand on Bucky’s thigh. His low voice, “Jesus Buck. Look at you. That feels amazing.”

Bucky laughs, breathless and off-center, “For your finger?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d rather fuck your cock.” There's steam fogging up the window glass.

Steve’s eyebrows knit and his lip curls. He starts pushing a second finger in and Bucky smirks. 

“Come on Steve,” Bucky lets his head loll back. He looks down at Steve with lidded eyes, “Fuck me how you want to.”

Steve moans behind closed lips. He breathes out hard and his eyes sink down Bucky’s body.

Bucky curls forward, head against the seat back, shoulders resting on Steve’s, “Hard and fast,” he growls in Steve’s ear, “Don’t fuck around.”

Steve’s free hand shoots up and shoves Bucky back against the dashboard. He starts fucking in and out in earnest and Bucky rewards him with a disbelieving groan. Body shifting up and down in Steve’s lap, spread and slick and aching. No sense left, none at all.

 

* * *

 

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“So you know. How. We were talking about, uh— things we wanted?”

Steve turns away from the stove and sets down his wooden spoon. “Yeah?”

“Well. Could I—” Feels stupid now that you have to name it, “Could I give you a bath?”

“Take a bath together?”

“No.” _That would be a lot less weird, wouldn’t it?_ “I mean, can I—” _Fuck, what? Can I wash you? Bail. Bail out of this whole thing_. “Nevermind.”

“No, hey,” Steve reaches for him. “Hey,” he pulls Bucky into a crooked side hug. “Tell me.”

“Tell your shoulder,” Bucky says, voice muffled in the fabric of Steve’s shirt.

“Yeah.”

“I want to give you a bath.”

“Okay,” Steve squeezes him closer, “Sounds great.”

Bucky snorts into quiet laughter, “You’re up for anything.”

“Yes I am.”

“What a wild guy.”

“Absolutely. In fact, let’s do it right now. Does right now work?”

Bucky backs up, a pang of panic in his chest. He blinks twice and grasps for an excuse. Steve takes his hand before he can find one and leads him toward the bathroom.

“Do we need anything?”

“What?” Bucky’s voice comes out a little strangled.

“Do you need anything? A washcloth? Or, you know.” Steve shrugs, “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Bucky swallows, “a washcloth.”

Steve runs the water and Bucky watches. He plugs the drain and stands up. “Clothes on or off?”

Bucky says nothing and steps forward. He pulls Steve’s shirt off slow. The gentle burble of the tub covers up all the tense, staticky sounds of two people trying something new. All the shifting and unshifting. All the duplicate gestures when both of them reach to undo Steve’s fly.

And so, you give him a bath. Warm washcloth in long swipes over his skin, water from cupped hands running down his back. It’s strange the entire time, from beginning to end. Steve never turns off the water. The faucet’s rush speaks so neither of them have to.

It feels good though. To be up to your forearms in wet warmth, pulling terry cloth over his stomach. When you finally feel settled enough to look up, you see his eyes are closed.

“Is it nice?”

“Yeah,” Steve keeps his eyes closed. “Really nice.”

Bucky studies the way Steve folds his shoulders in to fit into the tub’s narrow bowl.

“Why did you want to give me a bath?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky goes back to cleaning Steve’s legs, “I just thought I might like it.”

“Do you?

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky has a way of suggesting practical things while so turned on he’s slurring. “We uh—” Swallow and focus your eyes, “We need more towels.” Steve kisses him. Mumbled sounds into a small, familiar space, familiar closeness. “We can’t just— ah— have come on everything.”

Steve snorts. He makes a thoughtful sound, like he’s considering the idea.

 

* * *

 

“No kissing.”

“Why?” Steve leans back, “Do I have bad breath?”

“No,” Bucky smiles. “I just want to see what I can do to you.”

He noses along Steve’s jaw and breathes in the smell behind his ear. Bucky moves both hands to his lower back and pulls him flush. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky crawls into his lap and stretches, rubbing himself along Steve’s body. He folds over the side of the couch and brings up two handfuls of plugs. Bucky drops them on the cushion and  grabs Steve’s hand. He sets it on his fly and coaxes until Steve undresses him.

Steve’s eyes are easy and slow to react, the way they look just before he goes to sleep. “What would you like?” He lick his upper lip.

“Play with me.”

Steve jolts, eyes snapping to focus, “Well, Jesus,” he pulls Bucky closer with a hand on his ass, “When you ask like that—”

Now he’s the one pushing and pulling and putting you right where he wants you. Steve keeps them face to face and spreads Bucky’s legs so his knees are hooked over the outside of Steve’s thighs. With Bucky’s ass in the air, Steve fills him up. He works up to a plug that’s three fingers’ width at its widest. Bucky stops him when it’s almost all the way in.

“Stay there,” he says, and bites his lip on a groan. The stretch is incredible. Bucky feels so full and liquid that he’s having trouble keeping himself upright. He’s right on the razor’s edge of too much, where his body loses track of its sequence and tells him even the shallowest inhale will make him come. 

The lip of the plug slips inside.

“Fuck.” Bucky lets go of his cock and grabs the couch behind Steve’s head, “Fu—”

Steve wraps his hands around Bucky’s thighs and strokes his thumbs down the creases at the top.

“Move it around a little,” Bucky opens his eyes, gestures at Steve’s hands, “Just a little.”

Steve does as he’s asked, rocking the plug side to side, forward and backward.

“That feels— amazing.” Bucky holds off orgasm more often than he invites it. Stroking slow and breathing deep, “Push and pull.”

Steve tugs on the base of the plug without pulling it out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky nods and gasps, “yes.”

The closer he gets, the looser his ass becomes. Until he’s gripping the couch with one hand and slipping loose fingers over the head of his cock with the other, just slowing the inevitable crest. Steve works the plug faster and faster, responding to Bucky’s huffs and groans. He’s practically fucking him with it. When he comes it feels like coming apart. Making something new from a body that wanted to hold itself so tight. 

 

* * *

 

Sex is a lot like pain. It’s much, much more intense than is possible to remember. Even memories of last night, this morning, don’t burn as bright in your mind’s eye as they did in the moment.

You could call it a shame or you could embrace the chance to discover the height of pleasure over and over. Every time, it’s surprising. You can never believe how pure and consuming it is, how perfect its peak. Open mouth, shut eyes, coming over your fist, over his chest, with shaking legs.

All you remember in the morning is the slurry in your stomach. The sloppy emotional mess that sex leaves behind. Kiss Steve’s cheek, cold skin because it’s freezing outside of your blanket nest, and nestle closer to him.

Sex’s memory is the helium kick that upends your stomach when he slides his thigh between yours. A pleasant sort of chaos. A smile and a sound. A long kiss that grants the same refuge it seeks.

 


	9. Talk. Go on.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe you have four thousand more embraces and maybe you just have four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! If you're following me on tumblr you may have seen that I'm closing in on the last few chapters of this fic! There will be four more chapters after this one. I was going to post them all at once but this one... turned out to be extraordinarily long! So here it is! :)
> 
> Soundtrack Suggestion!
> 
> Sometimes by Title  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1NgIMYVknw

It’s the first time they’ve traveled this far from home without a mission. Bucky drives until they’re twenty minutes from the border and pulls into a gas station. They move casually, without talking, as though they are actually on a mission, being watched by the enemy. Bucky wanders over to the poorly kept fridge full of drinks next to the cashier. Steve fills the tank and gets in on the driver’s side this time. Bucky climbs in with two bottles of orange juice and they pull back onto the highway. 

Steve switches off the heat in the truck and they both put on gloves. They fall silent as soon as the border is in sight. The Canadian border guard at the crossing doesn’t react to Steve’s face, his name, or his passport. The man doesn’t smile so Steve doesn’t smile either.

“Are you carrying more than $10,000 in cash?”

“No.”

“Are you traveling for business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure.”

The border guard watches Bucky over Steve’s shoulder as he speaks.

“How long will you be here?”

“A couple weeks.”

“Where are you staying?”

The man’s eyes are still on Bucky and it takes Steve a fraction of second too long to come up with the name of the hotel, “The Hyatt in Montreal.”

The border guard hands their passports back and says, “Enjoy your trip.”

After a stretch of silence, Bucky says, “This is strange.”

“What is?”

“All the French. My mind, uh— switches into it. Fully. The longer I watch the highway signs the harder it is to think in English.”

“Oh.” _Is that bad?_ “Hm.”

“It’s fine. It’s just strange. The uh—” Bucky goes silent for a long moment, “The languages are really closely tied to— It feels like I’m going to— It just feels a lot like a mission.”

“Ah,” Steve clears his throat. A flush of unease colors his stomach. Maybe going to Montreal wasn’t the best idea.

“Hey, it’s fine.” Bucky nudges Steve’s shoulder, “I just need to get used to it.”

“Okay.”

“Just don’t ask me about guns or extraction logistics or—”

“Hostages?” Steve offers with a little smile.

“Yeah. Or even, uh— distances, sight lines, time periods. Any measurement. Just, don’t get too precise.”

“Alright. Got it.”

The truck’s rumble fills the pause.

“You can just use French if you want,” Steve says to the windshield.

“Yeah?” Bucky turns to look at Steve’s profile, “How is your French, anyway?”

“It’s horrible.”

Bucky snorts.

“And it’s from France, not French Canada. And it’s from the 40s. So.”

“So you’re saying I can just speak a language you don’t understand, is that it?” There’s a smile in Bucky’s voice.

“Well, yeah.” Steve’s smile broadens. “I’m not going to know what you’re saying, but I love the sound.”

Bucky says nothing. He watches Steve for a second and looks away. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s French is devastating. It’s a little quieter, a little rougher than his English. He swallows the particularly French vowels and soft, nasal n’s, though to Steve’s ears, his accent is flawless. It’s devastating because the sound draws Steve’s ear like a hook. It snags time and pulls it to a crawl.

Now you’re staring at his lips as he orders for both of you in a little brunch spot with red curtains and tea candles in red jars on the tables. The waiter is too busy smiling and nodding to notice, but Bucky’s not. He eyes Steve with something like a warning look that’s melted halfway to amusement.

They take the quietest vacation from nothingness at home to nothingness abroad. New streets but the same routine. Long walks, slow meals. Mornings tangled in white sheets, warmed by window-pane sunshine.

All three of the coats Bucky brought are hoodies. When he puts on all three at once for a walk long after sundown, when the temperature has dipped below freezing, Steve puts his foot down.

“Alright, time to buy you a real coat.”

“I have a real coat.”

“And yet, we don’t have it with us, for some reason.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if you realize this, but I can get pretty damn cold before it means anything.”

“But it means something to me. When I see my guy wearing three hoodies.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means you’re cold. Just let me buy you a coat.”

Bucky laughs and steps in, “Okay.” He presses his face to Steve’s, crooked and warm, no alignment, not a kiss, the best kind of closeness, a touch with no name. 

Bucky makes Steve pick out the coat. He raises his eyebrows ambiguously when Steve leads him to leather jackets, or puffy, insulated things, or long camelhair coats. Steve ends up buying something simple and sturdy. Black leather because Bucky seems to like that. Only a few pockets because Bucky seems to like to sew in his own. A high collar. That one’s selfish. Because you love the look of his jaw jutting out from the long slant of an upturned collar. 

What you don’t know yet, but will know the very second he shrugs his new coat over his shoulders, on top of just one hoodie— What you’ll know the second he smooths his hair back and pulls the hood over his head— The second he pops the collar and settles his hands in his pockets— Is that the months do change things. And what was longing became love became something deeper.

What once sent you spinning, made you smile that dizzy grin, will now bring you to your knees.

A flare so deep that the poets and the lyricists and the artists threw up their hands and left it nameless. It grabs your throat and recolors your vision. It’s not just the ache of limited time. It’s not just knowing you’ll have to close your eyes some day. It’s knowing you have him now. That he’s tugging the coat tight against his shoulders, testing its seams, and you’re staring at him, breathless, wordless, running out of time. 

You see so little of him under that hood, just the edge of his profile, just his essence—the plane of his forehead, the tip of his nose, the alternating soft curves and sharp angles of his lips, his scruffy chin—you see him and your heart trips up your rib cage and clamors in your throat. He should know. What he does to you. But you turn from words, from any soft sound your mouth can make. All of them too pale for this brilliant light. 

Steve’s hands reach Bucky’s waist first. He spins Bucky as he pushes him backward. Bucky’s hips hit the wall-mounted mirror in the corner of the store closest to the door and Steve’s body presses him flat against it. Steve’s fingers find his face and search straight back, into his hair, behind his head. Steve meets his lips with a rush, warm and needy. Holding Bucky still to take the closeness he’s aching for, as though he would ever pull away. 

 

* * *

 

On the walk back to the hotel, they pass a club with blacked out windows. There are two men standing on the sidewalk, smoking. Both have leather jackets over bare chests. The one facing them glances at Bucky, then at Steve. He takes a drag and looks back at Bucky. As they pass, two more men come through the opaque glass door. One has a leather collar around his neck.

Steve looks up at the awning over the door which reads, _Bar Le Stud._

His ears blush hot and he looks at the pavement. Neither of them speak until they reach their hotel.

 

* * *

 

Something about the grey, salt-stained sidewalks of Montreal makes Bucky buoyant. He has a boyish sort of bounce in his step. On lonely street corners and deserted park benches, he grins and presses his cold nose to the skin under Steve’s ear.

On their way through an alley so narrow it’d more at home in Europe, Steve knocks into his shoulder to push him out of the path of a puddle. Bucky walks through the puddle anyway. He smirks over his shoulder at Steve taking the long way around. When they’re side-by-side again, Bucky shoulders Steve back.

Steve trips sideways, gives him a confused look, and shoves Bucky again. Bucky catches his wrist, laughing now, and pulls him in. A quick tussle, where easy touches become more forceful, and Bucky wins. He catches Steve with one hand under his arm, around his ribs, and one hand under his opposite knee.

Suddenly, Steve is in the air and Bucky is holding him, pinning him to the brick wall. And perhaps because of the public setting, or just the unfamiliar city, Steve doesn’t laugh along, he doesn’t melt. He pushes back, both hands on Bucky’s chest.

Bucky doesn’t give. He flexes. There’s the spark. Tense shoulders, tight arms. For once, aggression is met with aggression. Like a wave that meets another. The momentum of each colliding, their watery edges meeting and leaping straight up, nowhere else to go. They shoot higher and higher, water rocketing toward the sky, their potential suddenly exponential. Steve pushes and Bucky pushes back harder. The flare only lasts for a second. Just long enough for Steve to feel his true strength and remember the last time he felt it. That he only ever gets to feel it when Bucky’s face is covered in black cloth.

Bucky releases him and Steve lands unevenly on the pavement. No sooner has he straightened up than Bucky’s in his face again. Not to kiss his chin or help him up. He just looms in and gravel-mumurs, “You like it when I’m rough with you.”

Upend. Feet toward the sky, head full of mud, stomach kicking itself inside out. _Yeah_. Open your mouth. No words to give him because it’s just dogs barking in your mind, snarling with open mouths, teeth flashing through foaming spit. Chain leashes strained to the breaking point, metal links digging into each thick neck. Animal instinct. _Hold me, bark, snarl. Let’s go, let’s go._

Steve tips his head back and says, “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Earlier on you could’ve talked about wanting to be sure. That idea served you well when you were watching his lips and touching his back, trying to keep your distance so he could heal.

Now you see that sure isn’t really something you can be. There’s never absolute certainty when another person is involved. He says ‘Yeah, of course,’ but his eyes say ‘I’m not sure where this is going. Don’t push it. Don’t push me,’ or maybe ‘Why are we still talking about this?’ or even, ‘I want all that and more but I won’t say.’His hands are sure on your shoulders, on your back, or his fingers are digging into the fleshy gap behind your knee, but the pause in his breath says he’s gauging it, that he’s careful not to hurt you.

But even that, you’re not sure of. Because now it’s three in the afternoon and you’ve been half-heartedly trying to get him out of bed and dressed so you can go get lunch, which with each passing sliver of warm-sheet tangled time, is sliding into an early dinner. 

In spite of your gentle prompting and half-stern admonishments, he has other ideas. He wants his tongue in your navel. He wants to kiss and suck the skin of your stomach and dip his tongue into that divot again and again. He wants to make wet sounds and lightly scrape his teeth over the skin. That’s all he wants and he’ll hold you down to get it. Hands on your hips, legs pinning yours in place. 

Now he wants his tongue in your ear. You hardly resist but he’s forceful anyway. His fingers curl tight in your hair and pull your head back, angle it how he wants it, then they flex, reset, and close into a fist again. Like a cat pawing at a cushion.

Certainty is not a constant, it flits in and out. It’s not even a note that sounds loud at first and fades. It bursts bright in a flash, _he wants what you want, tip your head back and offer up your neck, see if he’ll sink his teeth._ Then caution sucks the light to black. _Maybe he’s just loosening up, letting his guard down. Maybe he’s learning not to be so careful with his strength, forgetting to bite his tongue for once._

Don’t push him. He wants nothing like what you want.

 

* * *

 

Arousal is a straight-forward word for a complicated thing. It sounds like someone being roused from their sleep. But it’s more than that first moment. It’s like sleep-blurred eyes opening to the light, blinking their way to clarity, and finding themselves already on a path, already progressing along it.

It sounds like a hand on your shoulder to say ‘hey, get up,’ but it feels like a long, slim stir stick swirling, lifting the dust that’s settled in the bowl of your hips up into the liquid again. You’re not surprised to feel that wave when he kisses you. 

But watching him stack four boxes of tea in a crooked tower? Hearing him answer his phone with a quiet ‘allo’ when the box office calls back about those tickets? Feeling him tuck the tag of your shirt back inside without a word? Realizing he always snaps his fingers when he’s forgotten something back at the hotel? Hundreds of those little things, that have nothing to do with sex, pull the trigger the same way. Get you itching to touch him, get blood rushing and pooling. 

If Bucky notices, it doesn’t seem to bother him. There’s an immediacy to the intimacy you’ve built together. You ask and he answers. So what if your hungry hands come out of nowhere, snaking under his shirt, over his muscled stomach, when you’re standing in a museum, the only two people in front of a brass sculpture. He just huffs, abs flexing softly as he exhales, and lets you touch.

If Bucky notices—

If he notices—

“Hey,” he says when you’ve got your lips on his jaw and your fingers in his hair, “I think—” you cut him off by leaning back and catching his gaze. You watch his eyes flit back and forth between yours. 

He tries again, “Rogers.” That rumbly sound catches you around the collar. Lean in and kiss his throat.

“Rogers,” he tips his head back, rolls your last name around in his mouth like he’s making a joke, “I think you’ve got a thing for jackets.”

“No,” you mumble into his neck, “Just a thing for the guy wearing them.”

 

* * *

 

“Alright, okay, okay,” Plead, gasp, plead. “Come on.”

A dark chuckle. Thick with amusement and lust. Bucky’s hair is in his eyes and he’s crouched in front of Steve’s spread legs. His pants are half off and he’s shirtless. Just teasing at Steve’s cock with his tongue. Just floating soft fingertips between his thighs. Just resting the pad of his thumb against Steve’s asshole.

“Tell me what you want,” Bucky speaks with his head lowered, lips brushing the head of Steve’s cock.

“Fuck me,” Steve bucks his hips and pushes the tip of his cock against Bucky’s open lips, “with your fingers.”

Bucky doesn’t move. He raises his eyebrows to look up at Steve without lifting his head. He opens his mouth wider and pushes out his tongue. Steve’s cock twitches at the sight and he rolls his hips again. The sensitive seam on the underside of the head grazes Bucky’s tongue. Steve moans and pushes his hips higher, until he brushes the roof of Bucky’s mouth.

That slick oil want oozes thick through Steve’s gut. Closer to horny than hungry. Steve drops his hips and fucks up into Bucky’s mouth again.

“Fuck, come on,” There’s a little sneer pulling up the corner of Steve’s lips that he can’t help. “What do I have to say?”

Bucky huffs a laugh and cocks an eyebrow. He closes his mouth around Steve’s cock and sucks off the tip.

Steve’s eyes roll back when he sees Bucky reach for the bottle of lube waiting in the sheets. Open your mouth and listen to your shallow breaths, heaving in and out. Laugh at the lighter-than-air liquid under your skin and how it leaves you lying useless on the sheets.

Bucky’s cold fingertips leave a slick trail down the skin under Steve’s balls. He positions himself and leans forward. They watch each others eyes a moment before Bucky ducks his head. He kisses Steve with closed lips. Bucky’s finger begins to press inside at the same moment as his tongue opens Steve’s lips. 

It feels thick and unstoppable. Steve gives himself up to the intrusion and his stomach rolls with the most delicious sensation. It pulls thin strings up his inner thighs and drips through the swamp that used to be his stomach. Bucky moves so slowly that Steve gasps and moans a string of nonsense sounds into Bucky’s mouth four times before he’s in up to his knuckle.

Bucky keeps his other hand wrapped loosely around the base of Steve’s cock and balls. He sits back on his heels and starts to shift his finger around inside.

“Now,” Bucky’s voice comes as a surprise, “You have to tell me how you like it. Just—” he twists his hand slowly to one side, “sliding around in there. Or maybe a little bit of friction,” Bucky does something that turns up the volume. Suddenly, pressure. Steve’s body seems to flush itself empty. All the tension in his legs wilts. His loose body lights up inside.

“Or,” Bucky’s voice is edged. He’s in that valley that Steve loves to see him roll in. Bucky’s head tips easy to the side and he licks his lower lip with a slow tongue. “Something more like—” He pulls his finger out halfway and pushes back in. Steve’s mouth drops open and Bucky mirrors it. Steve makes a surprised sound and Bucky’s breathy laugh matches it.

“Like that?” The edge crumbles and Bucky’s voice goes rough.

“Yeah,” Steve’s voice comes out uneven, like it’s spilling out over a gravel road, “Do it again.”

Bucky pulls out and pushes in. Steve rocks with the motion, back into the sheets. His head rolls forward and back in a soft nod with each stroke.

“Yeah,” with an open mouth and a growl, Steve feels a new urge just under his ribs. His boneless body holds nothing but sound now and all he wants to do is let it out, “Like that Buck, like that.” 

Talk, go on, “You have no idea how good that feels.” There are no words in your mind before they form in your mouth. They just rise up from the void within, some sort of negative image of where they came from, “I want you to fuck me.” 

Bucky interrupts with a wanting groan.

_Shut up._ The words stop just short of leaving Steve’s lips, caught by some last-ditch filter his mind forgot to switch off. _I’m talking right now._ He laughs instead, then says, “You know what else I want?”

Bucky makes his movements a little bigger, “What?”

“I want you to fuck my throat.” Steve’s laid out on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. He spreads his hands, palms up on the mattress, to chase the ripple that comes when his body gives up its hold. “Hold my head and just—” Steve slurs the words around his tongue, upper lip curling, “fuck my mouth.”

“Deep,” Steve brings his chin toward his chest and finds Bucky’s eyes, “I want to gag on it.” 

Bucky’s giving him this disbelieving look with his eyebrows knit halfway between what-the-fuck-is-happening and tell-me-more. “And put your hand,” Steve’s voice bows and stretches around the words. He’s patient with each sound, giving it time to hitch first and settle into sounding rightbefore he moves to the next on, “on my neck. So you can feel your own cock, through the skin.”

Steve pushes up onto one elbow so he can watch Bucky’s face. “Fuck it slow, so I have to hold my breath.” Bucky leans forward without stopping the in-and-out rock of his hand. His face comes to stop just over Steve’s. “You take what you want. Take it from me.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, so softly it’s a whisper. He’s smiling with an open mouth. Eyes blown wide and glassy, “What else?”

“I want your cock in my ass. More than anything. I want you inside me.”

Bucky’s voice dips and rolls like Steve’s, “I’m inside you right now.”

“I want more.” Swallow, breathe in, “You’ve got a thick cock. That’s what I want.”

Bucky exhales in a rush and pushes his forehead against Steve’s. He slows down just long enough to add a second finger.

Bucky looks down at his hand and back up at Steve with widened eyes. It strikes Steve as hilarious and he snorts. Now you’re both laughing, unhinged by pleasure, temples resting together, his hair tangled and draped over yours. 

“I want—” Steve’s breath catches and he swallows.

Bucky breathes out a slow, encouraging sound.

“I want to get my mouth and ass fucked at the same time.”

Bucky’s upper lip cocks and his eyebrows knit. He doesn’t make a sound.

“With my wrists tied up,” A rush of pleasure surges up and laps over Steve’s ribs, “And my ankles.” Steve lifts his head off the mattress and pushes it against Bucky’s. He growls, “And my head laid back off the edge of the bed. So all I can do is suck you down deeper.”

Snarl and he snarls back. There’s a new urgency to the heat in your stomach. Bucky’s shaking his head side to side. He breathes out and grinds his cock against the back of his hand to push his fingers deeper inside. His eyes roll and unfocus.

Bucky pushes himself back so he’s seated hips over heels. “If my cock is in your mouth,” he sounds out of breath. Bucky pours a line of lube over Steve’s cock and closes his hand around it, “Then whose cock is in your ass?”

Make his eyes roll back again. Steve smirks and feels his face take an unfamiliar shape. A little half-smile that revels in what’s to come. The words rush up on their accord, already lining up behind his lips, the image they paint drips down his chest and makes his cock twitch. Some muffled voice in his mind jumps in— _whoa, whoa_ —but he barely hears it, “Well,” drawl the words, taste the edges. Say whatever you want, “I don’t know, so—” Every word spoken makes him lighter, emptier, takes him closer to the edge, “I guess you’re going to have to find someone for me.”

Bucky’s head drops with a choked noise. His hips stutter forward. He’s breathing hard now, way past the edge. Seeing him flustered and shaky over your loose, liquid body makes for a lovely image. “Steve, fuck.” His voice is strangled, pitched-up, “What am I going to do,” Bucky pauses to brush his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, “just bring home some guy?”

Something hot and assertive shocks up Steve’s insides. Just nod because pleasure has taken your voice. The heat blooms to an electric curl that unwinds down your arms, swirls down to your toes. “Yeah,” Steve manages. A wanting, sure sound, “Yeah, yes.”

Suddenly, Bucky pulls both hands away and grips the underside of Steve’s hips. He shoves him straight back and they collide with the pillows stacked up in front of the bed’s headboard. Their momentum forces Steve’s body to curl up against the pillows into a mostly-upright slouch. His body too undone to do anything but slosh wherever Bucky moves it.

Bucky looms in, pressing his nose to Steve’s temple, his lips to Steve’s cheek. His fingers find their way back inside and he begins to stroke Steve’s cock again. Steve moans and Bucky begins to talk, “I’m gonna go back to that club, with the guys in leather,” his breath on Steve’s cheek is hot and ragged. Steve moans, nods, tries to breathe in. “I’ll pick out a good one. Somebody who’s already half-hard.” 

Steve’s stomach kicks and his body jolts, “Yeah,” he nods against Bucky’s head, tangling in his hair, “Yeah.”

“Somebody with a big cock. Easy to tell because they’ve all got such fucking tight pants on.” Steve’s unsynchronized body laughs and gasps at once. _Is that what he sees? Is he looking?_ The thought launches Steve higher than he’s been before, panting, hanging on with deep breaths like fingertips on the cliff edge.

“I’ll just show up back here. No one says a word and we take your clothes off.” Bucky gives him a dark, lidded look that says— _you’re not the only one who can talk_ , “We take turns sucking your cock.” Bucky’s eyes roll and he grins like a tiger, “You know everybody’s gonna want a taste of that thing.”

Steve is making sounds with every stroke now. Bucky’s fingers are firm, circling and circling, just enough pressure.

Steve snarls, slurring his words, “Then I’ll say stop fucking around and get on with it.”

Bucky laughs. It’s black and light at once. Filthy and innocent and Steve wants him. Even when you’re lost to the world beyond your skin, you can still feel that perilous tug. You’ve found perfection. You can hold his head in your hands. Now, but not forever. “I’ll say let’s fucking go,” Steve slurs again. “Changed my mind, want you in my ass.”

“Ah, shi—,” Bucky’s face screws up. Steve can feel Bucky pulsing his hips, finding some friction against his rumpled pants.

“Fuck me so hard that I rock against him.” Orgasm crystalizes to a thread a few inches behind Steve’s cock. It spins itself into a growing knot, “Make me take him deeper.” Three strokes and the knot explodes. Bright ribbons streaking down those pleasure-thick nerves. Bliss rising like ocean waves; it’s not clear exactly when one flattens itself on the shore and the next consumes it.

Bucky fucks him through it then pulls out and immediately replaces his fingers with the tip of his cock. Not quite inside but deep enough to make Steve’s lip curl. Bucky slurs a string of sounds through his teeth and begins to jerk off. Steve barely has time to stroke his fingertips down Bucky’s chest hair before he’s coming. He can feel the slick wet of Bucky’s come getting everywhere.

He breathes and listens to Bucky catching his breath. When he opens his eyes, Bucky is watching him with wide eyes and a slack mouth.

“Where,” Bucky wipes the back of his hand across his face, “did that come from?”

Steve laughs, light and delirious.

“Was it because I had my fingers in your ass?” There’s those curious eyes. Hold yourself together, hold onto the sheets. Look perfection in the eye when he talks to you. “Or did you just decide, ‘What the fuck, it’s Thursday, let’s get filthy’?”

Steve laughs again, harder this time. So hard he coughs. 

“Is there something in the water? Do we need to move to Canada?”

Steve manages, “What’s with all the questions?” He laughs again and his shoulders lift off the bed, tipping his head back, “Give me a second.”

“Steve,” Bucky leans in and nuzzles the skin of his neck, “You don’t understand. I have to make this happen again.” He speaks with such clarity of purpose that Steve starts laughing again, catching himself between breaths with the sounds that Bucky’s nuzzling brings to his lips. 

“As soon as possible,” Bucky says with his lips against Steve’s throat, “Because my cock is so raw right now and I still want you to suck it. I’m— fuck,” a moan works its way out and distorts his words, “That was amazing. Was that good?” He pulls back suddenly, switching tracks, to see Steve’s face, “Did you like that?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods against the pillows, “I did. I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Bucky laughs and his eyebrows rise. He licks his lower lip, “Yeah, I’d hope so.”

 

* * *

 

Nose against his neck, breathe in the smell, the closeness. Breathe in your own luck like heat for cold fingertips. How lucky you are to be able to touch him. No words, no sounds, just the way your face brushes past his makes him hum.

He gives you one of those furrowed-brow-raised looks like— _Yeah? Do it again._

The certainty of this sensation, whatever it is, maybe the long tail of love winding around itself, pushing things inside you out of the way, makes all decisions effortless. Even decisions that really ought to wrack you. Even choices that the voice in your mind with something to prove would call the easy way out. Even ones that bring the bitter aftertaste of disappointment. Every one of them effortless.

Because you can see now, with the same clarity you’ve used to end your life a couple of times, that everything takes you closer or farther away. Life narrows to a rope that you can climb up or slide down. Closer to him or away. To outside eyes, your sacrifices may seem impossible. 

But you know. The truth, when you’re sitting still and ready to believe it, is that you are mortal. And there is a number. A finite, countable number hanging over you. The number of times you’ll get to hold him. Both arms wrapped tight, one between his shoulder blades and one on his back. 

One day you’ll reach the end of the tally and die.

Maybe you have four thousand more embraces and maybe you just have four.

So you grin at the crowd below, under the long tail of your rope, with their worried faces and squinted eyes. You hear your labored breathing, see your blistered hands, and yell down— _It’s worth it. Trust me._ Then you turn your eyes up and keep climbing. 

 

* * *

 

An animal never accepts the limits of its cage. It will search out the corners and paw at the edges. And the next day, it will do the same. So the beast within doesn’t come out blinking past its bars when you open your mouth, open its cage door. It wanders out like it’s always belonged.

It struts into the yard and curls up in the grass. Animals know no shame and it’s high time you learned the same. Because you said you wanted a stranger to fuck you and his eyes rolled back. He said he’d find you one. Swallow back the flood that comes with the memory alone. The words themselves lit you up inside. As if voicing them brought in more air than it expelled. 

It feels like discovering sex for the first time. Like learning that your body is only half of it. You can fuck with your mind, too. You can fuck with the world and the things you see and hear and feel. You can twist everything that comes in and make it a stuttering pleasure inside.

Now let that animal stretch its legs.

They go clothes shopping at an underground mall that never seems to end. Bucky doesn’t need new pants but he doesn’t mind if you want to buy him some. 

It’s ten minutes past ten when they’re the first people to wander into the men’s section of the department store. Steve gathers up three pairs of jeans in Bucky’s size and shepherds him into the dressing room.

“You know my size. It doesn’t change.”

“Yeah but you never know,” Steve throws a look over his shoulder to scan the store, “The sizes could be inaccurate, or the denim might chafe. Try them on. Just to be sure.”

“Chafe? Steve—”

“Try them on.”

Bucky gives him a soft smile with sharp eyebrows. Amused when you’re pushy, but yielding. He never says no. Bucky takes the pants and turns toward the dressing room.

“Send me pictures.”

Bucky pauses with his hand on the door frame and looks back.

“Of the pants,” Steve adds, “When you have them on.”

Bucky stares at him a second, “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Steve shoos him with a flick of his hand, “Go change.”

Bucky closes the door and Steve leans back against the wall. He scans the store for clerks and listens to the rustle-click sounds of Bucky taking off his pants.

A short while later, Steve’s phone buzzes. He opens the text from Bucky to see a below-the-waist shot of the jeans. He texts back, “Come show me.”

Steve can hear the faint buzz of Bucky’s phone through the dressing room door. There’s a brief pause, then more rustling. Bucky opens the door and leans his head out. When he sees Steve, he steps back and lets the door swing open.

He holds his hands out as if to say— _is this what you wanted?_

Steve steps closer and reaches for the waistband. He tugs once, two fingers hooked inside, and says, “Hm, I don’t know. How easy are they to take off?”

Bucky opens his mouth and closes it, eyes narrowing. Before he can put together a question or quip, Steve shoves, hustling him straight back into the dressing room. Steve elbows the door closed behind them with a click.

Bucky’s backward momentum sends him into the mirror. There’s a soft thud when he hits it and bounces off. Steve falls forward and catches himself on the wall behind Bucky with hands braced on either side of his shoulders.

Now Bucky’s surprise has snapped to smiling confusion. Steve grips his hips and Bucky’s eyes widen. He undoes the top button and Bucky huffs. He unzips the fly and Bucky whispers, “I don’t know about your pants buying priorities, Rogers.”

Steve leans in. Hot blood, thick limbs. The animal uses its voice. Whispering with your lips right against his ear, “What don’t you know?”

Bucky’s breath leaves in a rush. Steve slips both hands in his pants to grab his ass and Bucky gasps. 

Breathing quiet, words bleed together through your teeth, “God Buck, you look good. You look so good.” Steve brings one hand around to palm Bucky’s cock and balls through his underwear. 

He pushes the jeans down to Bucky’s knees and nudges him back onto the bench that runs the length of the dressing room.

Just seeing the shape of his ass through the fabric. The way he rucks his shirt up so you can see his stomach even as he mouths— _what the fuck are you doing?_

Steve hits his knees. Animal breath, animal tongue. He opens his lips and exhales over Bucky’s cock. There’s a clear tension in the air, a static electricity kind of urgency that tugs at Steve, tells him to hurry. 

Thud. Steve looks up. Bucky bucks his head back into the wall again and clamps his hand over his mouth. 

Steve smiles, slick and toothed. Yeah, that’s right. Hold him down. Surprise him and show him how you want it. Steve mouths along the length of his cock and drags his nose and lips along it, pulling at the fabric and foreskin. Bucky’s hips stutter and his legs jerk up off the floor. Hands under his knees, get your claws out.

Steve sits up quick and catches Bucky in a kiss. They’re both close to panting, catching their little sounds with halted breaths. Fuck your tongue in and out of his mouth so its just the fervent rush of air, the sound of someone losing their breath, the slide and rustle of his underwear coming off, the whisper quiet brush of skin on skin.

Now show him he doesn’t know you. Not yet. Show him you barely know yourself. Steve pulls a small tube of lube from his back pocket and pops the cap. Bucky laughs into his mouth without breaking the kiss. He knows what it is by the sound alone.

Rough hands on his hips to slide them forward. With Bucky slouched off the edge of the bench, pants around his knees, Steve puts two slick fingertips on his asshole and pushes them straight in. Bucky’s whole body jumps. His stomach flexes and his knees jerk. He pulls in a breath that comes in three stuttered gasps.

Steve growls, “Quiet,” and his own cock twitches at the sound of his voice.

Take him straight to the top. Firm fingers circling and rubbing. You know how he likes it so don’t fuck around. Steve keeps the pressure on, in up to his knuckles.

Bucky’s body jerks like he’s lost control. His hands jump straight out, toward Steve’s shoulders, then land on his thighs and pull them up. He spreads himself open and Steve gives him an appreciative sound.

Bucky covers his face, breathing so hard it could probably be heard outside the dressing room door. He opens his mouth and bites on the collar of his jacket to muffle the sound. Steve uses his free hand to swat Bucky’s arms away. Show him: What he gets is fucked in a department store dressing room. What he gives is a look at his beautiful face when it’s flushed and wrecked. When his eyebrows are still raised with disbelief and his eyes are rolling back and rolling back.

Bucky lifts his chin and huffs at the ceiling, shaking his head on a wobbly neck. Steve finally reaches for his cock. Five fingertips circle the head. It’s dark red now, nearly purple. Bucky jerks again and barely smothers a whimper. He lets his jacket fall from his mouth. A few open mouth pants and he fills it with two curled knuckles. Bucky bites down on his fingers and gives Steve a pleasure-wrecked scowl.

Steve’s mind zips back to the night before. To Bucky’s cut-off curses and furrowed brow. The way he pushes his head against Steve’s when he wants more. Your tiger nuzzling for a scratch behind the ears.

Steve drops his cock and tugs Bucky’s fingers from his mouth. There are red tooth marks on the pale skin between his fingers. Steve curls two fingers and nudges them against Bucky’s bottom lip. When Bucky opens his mouth, Steve settles his fingers on Bucky’s bottom teeth.

He closes his top teeth on Steve’s skin and bites down gently. A gauzy grin and he’s tonguing at your skin, panting filthy, hot and wet on your skin.

Steve whispers, “Touch yourself.” 

Bucky makes a cut off sound against Steve’s fingers with his first stroke. His knees are trembling against Steve’s hips.

Steve shushes him and leans in. He’s grinning the crooked grin that power gives when Bucky comes. Four pulses of white over his stomach. Biting down hard on Steve’s hand to keep quiet. Furrowed brow with a streak of color across his cheeks.

 

* * *

 

Words make you bold. 

Finally. 

After years and years of craving the confidence to match the wide sweep of your shoulders, you found it. With him, of course. Through him, really. You found it in bed with your face flushed, pressed up against the sheets. In a way, it feels like the words belong there and nowhere else. Or at least they only belong when you’re fighting to hold your voice steady. When you’re whispering.

“Hey Buck.” Clear your throat. Steady your nerves.

Bucky looks up at him from where he’s splayed half on the bed, half in Steve’s lap. He smiles slow and Steve smiles back.

“So you know how I was talking about, uh—” Wow, those words don’t make you so bold. Hearing the question take shape out in the air ties Steve’s tongue. He takes a deep breath and waits for confidence.

The pause makes Bucky sit up. He crosses his legs, swivels to face Steve, and puts both hands on Steve’s calf.

“So you know how,” Steve starts again, retracing his steps over words he’s already laid out, “I was talking about wanting to be,” Steve keeps his eyes on Bucky’s hands, “tied up?”

“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice is gentle. 

“Would you actually,” almost there, four more words, “want to do that?”

Bucky breathes in. He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, then, “Um—”

The ambiguous sound stretches and hooks the pit of Steve’s stomach. Before he can stop himself he’s a flood of words, “I trust you. It’s not about, uh— wanting you to do it, as much as it is wanting to have it done to me. And if someone’s doing it I want it to be you, does that make sense?”

Bucky’s watching him with those quiet eyes. He looks like he’s going to say something and that makes it even harder for Steve to hold his tongue.

“Because Buck, I don’t know. I’m horrible at this. I don’t tell you half the things that I— I just— I want you to know, I mean I know you do know, I want you to know that I see all of you. And I see the—” Steve stops hard on the word. Bucky looks at him expectantly. “I see the aggression. In you. I see the strength. And I love it,” Steve’s voice tips into something that exposes too much, rising with the bubble in his chest, “And I want it. I want to feel it,” his voice breaks and he picks it up. 

Tripping forward on bare, blistered feet now, desperate to show Bucky what he means, “I want to feel you want me. And I want to feel you take it from me. Because I know you can.” His voice cracks again and Steve points at his chest, “Because I want to let you. I want to do that for you.” Steve’s voice fails into a harsh whisper on the last word.

Bucky speaks before Steve can swallow and spill some more, “Okay,” he squeezes Steve’s leg gently, “Okay.” Bucky sits back a little and takes another breath, “I, uh—”

“Buck, I’m sorry, I should have—”

“Would you let me talk for a second?” Bucky cuts him off with a little smile.

“Sorry,” Steve wipes his eyes, “Yeah.”

“I told you before, that I’m scared of hurting you.” Now Bucky is the one speaking to his hands, “But, um— That doesn’t mean—” he lifts his eyes and Steve sees the beginnings of a flush over the bridge of his nose, the ways his eyes are blown wide and dark, “That I don’t want,” he’s choosing his words carefully, “to touch you— how you want to be touched.”

“Yeah I know,” Steve interrupts again, unable to stop himself. “I know you do. I guess I just— want to know if you want it too, because it’s not the same if you’re just doing it because I want it but you don’t actually—”

“Okay,” Bucky holds up a hand to get Steve to stop, “I understand. To be honest, I just have a hard time with the idea that you want me to be like that with you. That you want me to hurt you.”

“No, no,” Steve grabs Bucky’s hand, “Not to hurt me. Not to hurt me. I just want to feel that you could. That you have that power. That you could do whatever you want.”

Bucky’s worried brow softens. His eyes narrow and relax. Steve bites his tongue and waits.

“But I won’t?” Bucky asks slowly.

“Right.”

Bucky’s head tips to the side. “So you don’t want me hurt you. You just want to fuck the guy that kills like that,” Bucky snaps his fingers, “You want him in bed.”

The wave of lust in Steve’s gut is so thick that he waits a beat before he says, “Yes.”

Bucky blinks, then tips his head back to breathe in. His eyes flit back and forth over the ceiling. When he drops his chin he says, “Okay,” then nods, “Alright.”

There are those quiet eyes. Steve watches him turn the idea over in his mind.

“I don’t know why, Buck.” Steve squeezes the hand he’s still holding, “I mean. I don’t want you to feel like— I want you to know that I love all of you. And I’ve already had the chance to tell the you with the soft eyes and curious hands that I love him. And I do. I still want that. I want all of that. It’s just— I guess I see something in you that I— don’t have. Never have had. Even with the suit and the name and shield. I’m strong, but I’m not fierce.” Steve stacks up the words he’s told Bucky a hundred times in his mind, “I do the right thing. You do what you want.” Hush your voice, whisper to him, “So do what you want with me.”

 

* * *

 

“But I thought you liked eggs.”

“I do. I did. I just— since we started having egg whites, I can’t go back to the full egg. Now that I’ve had it without the yolk I can taste the weird yolky flavor in there.”

“Yolky flavor?”

“Yeah. Like, kind of chalky? Kind of creamy? But also— It has a flavor all its own. And it’s not good.”

Steve laughs. He tips forward toward the table and the laugh deepens. He hears Bucky snort softly, no doubt laughing right back at him.

“Okay,” Steve takes a breath to steady himself, “Okay, good to know. You don’t like egg yolks.”

“But I do like the whites.”

“Yeah, but they don’t have any flavor. All the egg personality is in the yolk.”

“Do you not like egg whites?”

“Not really. They just don’t taste like anything to me. A non-food.”

Bucky nods and sucks his lower lip, “Do you think you’d like to eat like, five yolks at once?”

Steve guffaws and loses it again. He laughs and laughs, curling forward until his forehead rests on the table.

 

* * *

 

You might ask, as you have, for rough hands and teeth. So go ahead, ask for the rest. Ask for everything.

In his lap, on your knees. Socked feet, no shirt. His back is up against the hotel bathroom door. His cock is already thick because he sucked you off in the middle of the night. You muffled your groans with the comforter and fell asleep with your head on his chest.

Now you’re grabbing his forearms in the cold yellow dawn light, just so he can pull back, use your own grip to pull you closer. No preface, no explanation. Lean in, nose to nose, “Do you want me?”

“I want you.” Bucky replies immediately. He strains away from the door, angling for a kiss, “Fuck, I want you,” Bucky lifts his hips against Steve’s weight, “So fucking bad.”

Tease him, take your time, “But you just had me a few hours ago.”

“I know,” Bucky’s voice comes out breathy, disbelieving, “Come here,” Bucky tries to get closer again, “I fucking know. I want you again.” He’s on the edge of asking, almost pleading, “Let me show you. Come closer.” 

He’s talkative today. Draw those words out. Make him beg.

“You want to fuck me?”

Bucky whimpers, “Yeah,” he’s pulling tight on Steve’s wrists now, shaking his head, “Yeah.”

“You,” Steve hears the rest of the sentence in his mind and has to stop to collect himself, “You are going to do exactly what I say, okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky slurs, heavy breathing already smearing his words to a string of sounds, “Tell me.”

“Let go of my wrists.”

Bucky releases him immediately.

Steve backs out of his lap and stands up, “Take my pants off.”

Bucky undoes his belt buckle without getting off the floor. He hooks his fingers inside the waistband and pulls everything down to Steve’s ankles. He’s so close that Steve’s cock bounces up and into his face as it pulls free of his pants. Bucky looks up, dark eyes, and smirks.

Steve snorts. Then says, “No touching.”

“Hey,” Bucky leans back and slips his own unbuttoned pants off, “It touched me.”

Steve pulls him over to the bed and lays down on his back. He points at the space between his legs, “Kneel here. One finger in me. Other hand behind your back.”

Bucky crawls onto the bed and kneels. He digs the lube out of the twisted sheets and slicks a finger. Bucky obediently bends his left arm behind his back and settles his wet finger against Steve’s ass.

Steve breathes out as Bucky slides in. He strokes his own cock and says, “Stay there.”

As he never says no, you’d think that the harder you pushed, the softer he’d become. But months of testing his boundaries have taught you: his obedience is a choice and he can only make it for so long before his body takes that choice away. He’s perfectly patient until instinct snags and rips him open. Then it’s the fastest route to pleasure. It’s rough hands and sharp eyes. He always knows how he wants it.

Steve waits until his body loosens around Bucky, until Bucky is slouched, unashamedly watching Steve touch himself, then he says, “Two fingers.”

Bucky holds his eyes as he adds the next one.

The stretch ripples up through Steve’s body, loosening the chords that hold him up, keep him together. It loosens the lines that hold his mouth shut and prompts him, sharp fingers in his back— _Go on, just talk. Say anything._

“When you fuck me,” Steve starts and Bucky cuts him off with a moan. He bites his lip and shakes his head, curling forward as his cock twitches. Steve starts again, “When you fuck me, I want you to tell me what it feels like. I want— Add another one. I want—”

Bucky’s quicker with the third finger and it makes Steve jump.

“Stop there. I want you to tell me everything you think. Don’t censor. Everything you feel. Put it into words for me.”

Bucky’s nodding loosely. He says, “All I’m going to be able to say is how fucking tight you are. That’s all,” Bucky waves his free hand at his head, and replaces it behind his back, “I can ever think about when I’m in here. It’s just gonna be worse when it’s my cock, instead of my hand.”

“Okay, keep going.” Steve takes a full breath and by the time he breathes it out, Bucky has all three fingers in up to the knuckle. “Then just keep— telling me that.” Steve drops his voice into Bucky’s sex-rough growl, “Steve, fuck, you’re so fucking tight.”

Bucky laughs. His grin looks particularly sharp with his hair hanging in his face.

“Fuck me.” Steve’s cock jumps as the words leave his mouth. Bucky looks at his face and Steve feels that smooth smile take over. His eyes drift, “Come on Buck.”

Bucky’s voice is hushed, a little pinched, “With my fingers or my cock?”

“Your cock.”

A beat.

“Are you serious?”

“No I’m just fucking around,” Steve deadpans.

Bucky pulls his fingers out slow and brings them straight to his own cock. He rolls the gravelly words around, “That’s too bad.” He strokes his cock and uses his left hand to touch the back of Steve’s thigh, “You look pretty fucking good like this. Ass so loose,” his voice tapers up and becomes a huff, “You look like you could take it.”

“Take you?”

“Yeah.”

“What makes you so sure?” _Talk, just talk. Say anything. Smile with your shark teeth. Lure him in._

Bucky looks up. His mouth is hanging loose, the flush on his cheeks so bright it’s more red than pink, “I’m a pretty careful guy. Like to take my time. Be sure.”

“Oh yeah? And you’re sure?”

“Only one way to be sure,” Bucky lifts his hips and brushes the head of his cock against Steve’s ass, “Just have to try it.”

Steve’s eyes flutter at the touch. He says, “That doesn’t sound very careful.”

“Yeah, fuck careful.”

Steve laughs out loud and Bucky snickers. His chest is rising and falling with each breath. The way his eyebrows lift when he looks down at Steve gives him away.

“Well if you’re not gonna fuck me, I’m gonna fuck you. Hands on the bed. Hold still.” Steve lifts himself onto his elbows and feet. He shifts forward just enough, so Bucky’s cock begins to push its way inside.

Bucky jumps, eyebrows crumpling, mouth dropping open. He sets his hands on the bed, looks down at the head of his cock and back up at Steve. _Yeah_ , Steve grins at him, _you do what I say. Let me show you. I can pull you apart._

“Now,” Steve pauses, “You remember what I said. You tell me everything.”

Bucky nods, loose head on a loose neck. “You feel—” he pants, shakes his head, and gives up a delirious little laugh, “so fucking good. I’m useless, Steve. I can’t. There are— no words.”

“You’re doing great,” Steve swallows and shifts forward a little more. He feels himself open up easily for the head of Bucky’s cock. There’s that unbelievable stretch. Steve pauses again.

“Oh fuck,” Bucky’s head drops forward. His stomach muscles jump and clench between quick breaths, “Fuck, that feels amazing. Steve you’re so tight. You’re so fucking tight.”

Steve starts to laugh, trying not to make noise. 

Bucky ignores him with a smile, “You have no idea. So fucking tight. Steve, oh my god.” Bucky flexes his fingers up off the bed and bites his lip.

“Don’t move,” Steve slurs, getting off on Bucky’s voice as much as the full sensation taking over his body. “I move.”

Bucky nods at him, then shakes his head and turns it to the side to bite the skin of his shoulder.

Steve shifts forward again, so the back lip of Bucky’s cock’s head slips inside. There’s a little give and Bucky groans like he’s forgotten about the hotel’s thin walls. Steve keeps pushing toward his heels to take the shaft too. 

Bucky’s upper lip curls up into a snarl, “Oh Jesus. Yeah, like that. Like that. Fuck, it’s so warm. Steve—”

Steve loses his grip when Bucky’s cock pushes across his prostate. His knees jump uncontrollably and his head tips back. _Fuck._ The world tips on an axis that runs through your stomach. It lurches and the rules warp. The pleasure you remember pales in comparison to this. Steve moans, loud, much too loud. He drags his hips back and pushes forward again. The heat and the world-up-ending spin rise again, stronger this time.It wipes him clean inside, clears the way for words and pleasure like smoke and cock. As much as he has to give.

Steve arches his neck off the bed and slurs, “Fuck me. Buck, please.”

No smart remark, Bucky does as he’s told. He takes over, fucking forward until his cock is buried to the hilt. Steve twists, helpless noises on his lips. The fullness pushes in and Steve lays back. He welcomes an arousal so thick he feels sick. He lets himself be split open, filled up from the inside. 

Bucky pulses his hips right up against Steve’s ass. Back and forth, barely in and out. He growls, “You feel that? Fuck, Steve. I’m gonna fucking lose it,” Bucky’s slurring, smiling. He moves his hands from the bed to Steve’s ribs and pulls his body into a rocking motion against his cock. “You feel how fucking deep that is?”

Huffing over open lips, eyes rolled back. Steve says, “Do what you want. Let me feel it.” 

“Uh huh,” Bucky’s lips start to curl again, “I know you like it rough. Like it when I hold you down.” He picks up the pace, dragging out and thrusting in, “Bet you like it like this.”

The motion makes it hard for Steve’s overworked body to coordinate a breath. He gasps, “Yeah, yeah, more.”

“Harder?” Bucky’s voice takes on an edge that says his questions aren’t questions anymore, “Even harder? You really want it.” Bucky drags his cock all the way out and fucks it back in slow, “That’s so fucking hot.”

Lose it, lose it. Your grip and your footing on the right side of the axis. Swing and spin. Breathe deep to empty yourself again for his cock. Which way is up? Words and sounds are the same, just unstoppable noise to plead for more. Ripple, ripple. Pleasure to heat to stomach-sick churn. _More, like that—_ is just a shaky moan. 

Bucky fucks in and out with long strokes. He grabs the backs of Steve’s knees and folds him up. The louder Steve gets, the harder he fucks. Until Bucky’s balls are slapping his ass and the slick clap of skin on skin comes with every thrust.

Through heavy breaths and shaky sounds, Bucky drips gravel words that slither over Steve’s cock, “I’m gonna come. Fill you up. Jesus, Steve. So loose like this. I could fuck you for days. Ahh, yeah, let me hear you. Those fucking sounds, oh my god.”

Orgasm lifts sensation off the bed and slams it back through Steve’s body. It catches him by surprise and all he can say is, “Keep going, keep—” Steve shakes fiercely and Bucky fucks him through it. Every muscle in Steve’s body jumps and grips, wrecked with sensation. His ass clenches, loosens, clenches and Bucky’s face contorts. He thrusts into Steve twice more before he comes, groaning a sound that stutters up from his stomach. Bucky slows down to a crawl and takes two more strokes with his eyes glazed, mouth open.

In the foamy wash after the wave, their eyes meet. Bucky’s eyes flicker and he grins. 

 

* * *

 

It’s the knife he keeps against his skin. The one he tucks into the jut of muscle just below his hip bone. It’s a switchblade that opens without a sound. A nice knife. Maybe his favorite one.

Steve knows what it is the second he sees it flash in the streetlight. Normally, Bucky keeps his weapons right up against his body until he strikes. So the easy way he walks with it in his hand is clearly a signal to Steve. It says— _hang back, I’ve got this._

After all this time, he’s still trying to push you back so he can step forward. Steve quickens his steps so he’s less than a pace behind Bucky. Bucky doesn’t react, though he must have noticed. Maybe defiance is what he expected.

The man that’s been following them for a couple of blocks is catching up. Bucky takes a purposeful turn down an alleyway and Steve follows. Eyes up, look for cameras. Stop walking. Turn in place. Slow your breath and listen for footsteps.

Steve expects a quick catch and quiet struggle. But when the man in the black knit cap turns the corner with his hand resting inside his jacket, Bucky does nothing.

Steve’s combat instinct leaps up and smacks the back of his head. Bucky is leaning against the alley wall with his hands in his pockets. He says something in French and the man in the cap replies in kind.

Steve watches the man’s shadowed face contort. Bucky says a few sentences and the man snorts. The sound makes Steve want to punch him in the jaw. Then follow him down and punch him again. Is it just the adrenaline, the time away from the fight? Or is that animal you’re feeding now that’s got you thinking about the satisfying crack of bone against concrete.

The man spits something through yellow teeth that makes Bucky shake his head. Bucky pushes off the wall and steps in, speaking in a voice so low Steve can barely hear it. The man laughs. That’s not an unusual reflex for a man like this. You don’t a get a job policing your gang’s territory if you don’t laugh in the face of fear. If you don’t laugh in the face of death himself when he taps his knife against his leg.

The problem with men like this is that they don’t back down. Conflicts only escalate. The more you threaten them, the more they dare you to swing. Bucky hates loose ends and so do low-level mobsters. So, with a resignation only earned after too many years at war, Steve expects blood.

Instead, Bucky laughs back. It’s a dark sound, much quieter than the other man’s. “Yeah,” Bucky says, switching to English, “It’ll go all the way to the fucking top.”

Silence. The man in the hat swallows. The bravado takes a back seat and he says, with something that sounds like genuine curiosity, “Men with metal arms don’t take vacations.”

Bucky snorts a small laugh and his eyes glitter. He looks at the man across from him like he’s told a good joke and says, “Sure they do.” 

And just like that, with a man whose hidden hand is no doubt holding a gun standing right in front of you, you’re watching Bucky’s brow, watching his smile. You’re melting on the inside all over again. Because your life was cut out to be a struggle from the very beginning; how did it end up like this?

 

 


	10. Now Settle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. heLLO THERE. I am back. Buckle up! Final chapters incoming! 
> 
> Soundtrack suggestion!  
> Weightless by Vaski ft. Beak Nasty  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z37Uh5Pdq6k

The sun is bright so you’re squinting, still not sure if it makes a difference for your vision. Sometimes it’s nice to just let reflexes play themselves out; it’s just nice to know they’re still in there, still trying to protect you.

Steve has on metal rimmed sunglasses. He bought Bucky a nearly identical pair a few months back, but Bucky wears them tucked into his shirt collar more often than he wears them over his eyes.

They’re sitting in the grass. The tiny green blades are warm from the sun, but the ground below is frigid. Early spring sunshine cuts through the sky and lights the two of them up in stark light and shadow, like a camera flash. It’s as though the sun came early and the sky wasn’t prepared, no summer clouds or thick humidity to absorb and filter it. Bucky’s chest and legs are warm where the light lands, his back is chill in the shadow.

“So, it would just be twice a week?”

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs with his face up toward the sun, “And just during recruit training season. March through August.”

“Live ammunition?” Bucky picks at a fingernail.

“No. Actually, I think they use live fire for some of the field tests. But no live ammunition for training.”

“And they want me to do… ?”

“Sniper training.”

Bucky looks at Steve sideways. “And what do they want you to do?”

“Strategy and tactics. I’ll just be on the headset.” He nods once and Bucky smiles, “Is that acceptable?”

Bucky’s smile widens, “I guess so. If you can actually stay out of the field.”

“Yeah. I think someone will probably be supervising me at every opportunity.”

Bucky laughs, “Good. Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”

Steve takes off his sunglasses and points with one wire arm, “You’re lucky I’m not trying to give my security detail the slip.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky tips his head back, “You couldn’t shake me if you tried.”

Steve waves his glasses, “How would you know? Maybe I’ve given you the slip before.” He points at Bucky’s face to punctuate the thought and Bucky leans forward, catches the tip of the glasses’ arm in his teeth.

He grins around it and says, “No way. I know all about the thing under the sink.”

Steve drops his head back and groans, “I was so sure—”

Bucky laughs and let’s go of the glasses. “I was tailing you the whole way.”

“Well,” Steve’s eyes settle on Bucky’s mouth, “Try to forget about it.”

Bucky shakes his head. He licks his lower lip.

“I was going to surprise you next weekend.” Steve sets the tip of sunglasses on Bucky’s lip.

Bucky lets the light pressure pull his lip down, “Not a chance.” His voice hushes a little and his head stills. They hold each other’s eyes, stepping together from conversation to exploration.

“No?” Steve’s eyes glimmer playfully and he pushes down a little harder. 

Bucky lets Steve open his mouth. He touches the tip of the glasses arm with his tongue and grins.

Tip tip tip. Steve’s head tips, a gesture so small that Bucky senses it more than he sees it. Like they’re in a bowl of milk, swirling around with the liquid, losing track of which way is up. Centrifugal force replaces gravity.

Steve’s neck gives a little as he slides the glasses onto Bucky’s tongue and inches into his mouth.

Bucky immediately opens his mouth wider. He holds his head still and lets Steve press on his tongue. Bucky tastes metal and breathes easy. He waits for Steve to take the next step. The casual submission sends an erotic thrill up from the tops of his feet to the back of his shoulders.

They’re in a public park but there’s no one near enough to see exactly what they’re up to. Steve’s eyes are on his mouth, growing darker and softer the longer they watch. His gaze snaps up to Bucky’s eyes, and his free hand rises to Bucky’s chin. 

Steve nudges him and Bucky closes his mouth around the arm. Bucky takes the lead and tilts his head back, sucking on the metal in his mouth as it slips back out his lips.

 

* * *

 

Bucky does the laundry. It’s the closest thing they have to a household rule. Steve sometimes says “thanks” when Bucky puts the sheets back on the bed, or sets their folded clothes back in their piles, but Bucky never replies, as though, “you’re welcome” would imply that he’s doing Steve a favor. 

Today, Bucky tests the washer’s capacity. He lifts the dirty laundry from the hamper with both arms and dumps it into the machine. Then he rounds up all his clean clothes and all of Steve’s and dumps them in too. The only clothes not in the machine are the sweatshirt and jeans he’s wearing. 

It doesn’t take Steve more than ten minutes to show up with wet hands, “Hey Buck, where’s the dish towel?”

“Laundry.”

“Oh, okay. I can’t find… any towels actually.”

Bucky fights to keep his face straight, “Yeah, they’re all in the washer.”

A pause. “Were they all dirty?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Steve looks at the floor and says nothing, then, “Is there something you want to tell me? About what happened to the towels?”

Bucky laughs. “No,” he snorts, trying to pull himself together, “They just needed to be washed.”

Steve is wearing one of those faintly starstruck smiles.

“Come here,” Bucky tucks his hands in his jean pockets, “You can dry your hands on my sweatshirt.”

“But I like that sweatshirt.”

“Water’s not gonna hurt it.”

Steve walks over and for a split second Bucky thinks he’s going to kiss him and cut straight to the part they’re both waiting for. Steve stops short and pulls the hem away from Bucky’s body. Instead of folding the fabric around his wet hands, he sets all ten cold fingers on Bucky’s stomach, “Like this?”

Bucky nods, holding Steve’s eyes. He flexes his abs as Steve’s touch wanders up his skin.

Steve’s face drifts closer and they tip into exploration again. Here, accelerating breath sets the pace and time falls away. The tip of Steve’s nose touches the tip of Bucky’s. Bucky huffs.

Sometimes the game is spoken aloud, played out in the open. The invitation is clear and the path to acceptance is obvious. Sometimes the game is as quiet as possible. The invitation is a tiny clue and an open end. Sometimes you hide all the towels to make him touch you. And even when he’s right in front of you, with his hands up your shirt, you hold still. You just let him know that you want to play and wait to see where he takes it.

Steve whispers, “My hands aren’t getting any drier.”

Bucky snorts, abs flexing again, and looks away to laugh.

Steve pulls his sweatshirt up and over his head, “Guess we better get you a dry shirt though.”

“Don’t have any.”

“Let me guess,” Steve grins, he’s caught onto the game, “they’re all in the laundry.”

Bucky nods and bites his lip. Now shirtless, he points at his pants, “This is the only clean thing I have.”

Steve tucks his fingers into the waistband and tugs it away from Bucky’s skin. He looks into the gap and nods, eyebrows raised, “No clean underwear, huh?”

Bucky just grins back at him.

“Well,” Steve pulls his fingers out and turns away, “I think we should wash those jeans so you’ll have everything clean at once.”

“Good idea. Come take them off.” Be blunt. Give orders. Interrupt the game’s quiet give and take with a thunderclap.

But Steve keeps walking. He says, “No, wouldn’t want to leave you with nothing to wear.” Steve stops at the kitchen sink and turns it on.

Bucky follows him, not willing to let him get too far away. He leans against the kitchen island and watches Steve adjust the water temperature.

“Okay,” Steve turns around, “Come on.” He gestures for Bucky to come closer. He scoops Bucky up with his arms under his hips, a gesture so common Bucky doesn’t flinch, and sets him on the counter next to the sink.

“You’re going to wash me in the sink?”

“No,” Steve fills a cup with water and pours it on Bucky’s crotch.

Bucky jumps and looks up at Steve. Shock and silence. The water soaks into the denim, pools on the counter, and drips off the side. The quiet patter of water dripping onto the floor fills the pause.

Bucky laughs first. It starts as a single, surprised exhale, then crumbles into confused laughter. “What?” he chokes out, “Wha— at?”

Steve’s face twitches into a smile and he bites his lip to keep it straight.

Bucky’s laughter rolls out of control. He looks down at his soaked jeans and laughs harder, “Steve— the fuck was that?”

Steve shrugs, “Just helping out.” He caves and starts to laugh as well.

“Great,” Bucky’s sarcasm is lost in his breathlessness. He cracks up again, “Thanks.”

“No problem.” They’re both laughing so hard that it’s the only sound in the apartment for a stretch.

Steve pulls himself together long enough to say, “There’s no towels—” which sends Bucky into stitches again. A few failed attempts later, Steve manages, “There’s no towels, so— I’ll just have to— dry you off with the sheets.”

Bucky doesn’t put up a fight when Steve scoops him up and carries him to the bed. He tumbles down onto the mattress with Bucky and sits back on his heels. Steve pats comically at Bucky’s crotch with the corner of a sheet and Bucky swats at him, laughing too hard to breathe.

Steve leans in and kisses Bucky’s jumping stomach. Bucky can feel him chuckling against his skin and lets the ridiculousness of the moment swirl and settle. He thinks to himself, as he has before, that being in love is insanity.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, but it’s not the same,” Bucky shakes his head loosely. “It’s just different. One’s not better than the other.”

Steve shifts and settles closer to Bucky, “Tell me.”

“Well,” Bucky draws the fingers he has buried in Steve’s ass out to the first knuckle, “With my fingers, I can feel _everything_.”

Steve chuckles and closes his eyes.

“Every little twitch and breath. I can feel your heartbeat.” Bucky brushes his hair out of his face with his free hand, “I can feel your prostate get hard. It gets so big when you come.”

“With my cock, I’m just— I’m too fucked up to feel anything. All I wanna do is fuck in and out.” Bucky’s hard from his own words, “So warm and tight. Feels so good I just lose my mind.”

Bucky watches Steve open his eyes and grin.

That’s sex. Not the physical pleasure, but the mental rise. It’s the way sparks zip out between your words and set him off. It’s the way your sounds slur and you breathe in when he breathes in. Sex is the release and release is a mental game.

Bucky reaches forward and runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. He tugs gently and Steve’s head tips into the pull. Bucky tugs again and watches Steve’s brow lift. Bucky resets, stroking and tugging as lightly as he can. Bucky checks a third time, and a fourth. _Yeah, he likes it._ He tugs again. Steve’s mouth is loose and soft. He hums and huffs. _Alright, he definitely likes that._

 

* * *

 

Quiet self, quiet mind. Time gains momentum and begins to jog. Weeks pass quicker and each month doesn’t feel like its own era. Bucky earns his stability. Time gives him perspective on past false starts and he sees how his fragile foundations had been moored against moving things.

Bucky finds that uncertainty can be a calmer companion and doubt can be tamed. He learns to wait when his stomach pitches sharply instead of following his thoughts to the depth of their spiral. He find his own safe havens and doesn’t name them.

He holds Steve from behind and tucks his nose and mouth just behind Steve’s ear. He listens to the tiny movements Steve’s body makes in response.

They completed their first day of training with Fury’s crew today. Bucky was introduced as “an old teammate of Steve’s” and given the name Agent Crewson. Bucky watched four hours of arms training from the corner of the room and said nothing. Steve gave him a couple small smiles and Bucky nodded in reply.

 

* * *

 

Bucky trains the recruits with a long-sleeved jacket and a pair of gloves. He knows their names but doesn’t use them. The one named Agent Gregory got too close too quickly when Bucky was sighting his scope and old reflexes sliced straight through his learned slowness. These people still feel like a threat. Before he could stop himself he had Gregory’s arm behind his back and a knife at his throat.

Bucky shoved him away so his arm couldn’t complete the gesture, a quick cut from left to right. He said nothing and Gregory was quick to retreat. Steve wasn’t there to see and Bucky didn’t tell him.

Now it’s eight at night and they’re tangled on their too small couch. Steve’s fingers are drifting up Bucky’s side and back down to his hip. He hums into Bucky’s hair.

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice comes out anxious and Steve freezes.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s just—” Steve’s arm tightens around him and Bucky can’t finish the thought.

“Let’s what?” Steve’s voice is so soft.

“Just, uh—” Bucky’s voice deserts him again and his body tightens against failure, “I can’t. Tonight.”

“Okay, hey,” Steve keeps pulling him closer. He’s talking to the back of Bucky’s neck, “Hey, that’s fine. More than fine. Can I hold you? Just like this?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s chest burns and he breathes through it. Cough once, try to ease that anxious seize. Now settle. When Bucky is nearly asleep, he hears Steve whisper, “I love you.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh my god, Steve.”

Steve laughs and Bucky’s whole body jumps. He rests his forehead against Steve’s knee and moans. He shakes his head and the words tumble out, “Steve, holy shit. I can’t— You feel like—”

Steve reaches for him and shushes him. He says, “Just wait a second. Stay there.”

Bucky has one finger in Steve and for the first time, it’s one made of metal instead of skin and bone. The oversensitive receptors in his metal arm are firing full force and he’s reeling. The sensation is so intense that it feels more than physical. His mind is surging and stretching, trying to explain itself.

Bucky slides his finger a little deeper. His groin pulls tight and something like pain shocks up his stomach, “Okay, fuck. Hold on,” Bucky grimaces.

“Slow down,” Steve is reaching for him but can’t touch anything more than the edge of his knee in this position, with Steve on his back and Bucky kneeling between his legs.

Bucky tries pulling his finger back out and his whole body stutters. He moans, brow furrowed, and bites at Steve’s knee.

Steve starts laughing again and Bucky curls forward, bracing himself over Steve’s hips.

“Steve, you can’t laugh. Your whole body— contracts and I can feel it.”

“What does it feel like?”

“It feels like we’re in space and I’m fucking you through an entire planet.”

Steve cracks up, “Wow. What?”

“It feels like you’re an ocean and I’m holding you in my fingertip.”

“Okay,” Steve sits up on his forearms, “Do we need to stop?”

Bucky shakes his head, “It’s getting better.” He tries pushing his finger in again and his vision blurs. “Yeah,” Bucky slurs, cock achingly hard between his legs, “That’s better.”

Steve’s eyes are dark, “You look like you like it.”

Bucky nods limply, sliding his finger in and out.

“You want to add more?” Steve prompts him.

Bucky shakes his head, “Anything more than this and I’m gonna come.”

Steve snorts and Bucky’s face contorts.

“Hey,” Bucky tries to give him a warning look.

Steve smiles back, “I know. No laughing.”

“Talk to me,” Bucky says. Steve’s body has relaxed, adjusted to easy in and out. Bucky’s body, still searching for an explanation, seems to be questioning if it’s actually his cock doing the fucking.

“What should I talk about?” Steve swallows and sinks a little deeper into the mattress. Bucky can feel his prostate harden. Turn him on. Ask for what he wants to give you. Set him spinning.

“Tell me something you’d never tell me.”

“Oof,” Steve chuckles, “Tall order.”

“Yeah. You like to run your mouth though.”

Steve makes a slippery, pleasure-soaked sound. “That’s true.” He nods to himself, “I’ll— tell you something.”

Bucky hums his encouragement and starts to slip in a second finger.

“I wonder—” Steve’s body catches twice in the pause, his stomach tightening, shoulders folding in, “I want to know what a woman tastes like.”

It takes Bucky’s disoriented mind a moment to process that. When it clicks, he looks up with a surprised grin, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve’s body is loose but his eyes are searching Bucky’s face.

“Hm,” Bucky considers for a second, then says, “You want to go down on a girl?”

Steve just nods, mouth open, eyes rolling.

“I bet you’d be good at it.” Bucky’s body is buzzing dully at the images filling his mind. “You’re so good at sucking cock, I’d bet you’d be good at anything you set your mouth to— I mean, mind to.”

Steve huffs. He’s swelling around Bucky’s fingers, getting closer to the edge.

Sex takes an idea whose ambiguity would normally paralyze Bucky and makes it an erotic, electric cloud that lifts him higher and higher.

“I want to put my fingers in her,” Steve slurs.

Bucky feels the kick behind his ribs and groans. He circles his fingers faster.

Steve gasps, “I wanna make her come.” He pulls on his own knees and says, “Wanna do it right for her.”

Bucky grins down at him through the mess of words and overstimulation. Still a gentleman, even in his most private fantasies.

Afterwards, Bucky strokes Steve’s skin. The nerve receptors in his metal arm are still jumping and he takes advantage of the feeling to touch Steve everywhere he can. 

_Does he really want that?_ Bucky’s sleepy mind turns over the idea. He gives Steve a quiet little hickie on the back of his neck.

He decides not to ask, at least not now. Bucky has always left sexual questions open until Steve answered them. Whatever he wants. When it comes to sex, Steve has always been the level-headed one behind the gas pedal while Bucky was leaning out the window with his arms wide, trying to catch the wind.

 

* * *

 

You get to decide what matters. It’s part of owning yourself. You can just decide. You can keep the names or you can forget them. You can choose not to use them.

Her name is Agent Redmonton but it’s really Angie. She’s new, a late addition to the team. She’s smart and bold and she’s got the same strong jaw and sharp eyes as Peggy Carter. She doesn’t waste any time. They’re at Fury’s base, wrapping up a day of training, when she makes her move.

“So, Captain, what about you?” Angie is standing near the door with the last of the recruits to leave for the day.

“Hm?” Steve looks up from a thick-bound strategy handbook that he’s annotated in red pen. 

“What are you up to this weekend?”

“Oh,” Steve blinks and shakes his head, “Nothing.” His eyes flit to Bucky, who is pretending to look for something so he can wait for Steve. “Well, you know. Errands. Need to uh— fill up my bike. With gas.”

Angie nods and smiles, “Sounds really fun.” The other recruits have disappeared into the hallway beyond the door.

“Yeah,” Steve laughs self-consciously, “I’m a pretty boring guy.”

“No hot date?”

Steve’s face freezes for a second. He bites both lips, raises his eyebrows, and shakes his head, “Nope.”

“Handsome guy like you deserves a night out once in a while. You should come out with us.”

“Oh, uh—” Steve raises his hand and readies an apologetic smile.

“Or we could just—” she shrugs, “get a drink sometime. Just the two of us.”

Steve finds his footing and says, “I can’t.” He lets the words hang for a long moment before adding, “Thank you, though.”

Angie looks down. Her voice shifts from carefree and social to something more sincere, more transparent, “Sorry.” She nods, “There’s someone else, huh?”

“Yes,” Steve’s voice is soft. Bucky’s mind takes him back to that stomach-churning evening when Natasha showed up at Sam’s door. He sees in Angie the same threat he saw in the woman by Natasha’s side: someone who knows what they want. He envies their certainty more than anything else.

“Yeah, okay.” Angie takes a step toward the door. “Must not be anyone here,” she laughs to herself.

Steve swallows.

“I mean,” Angie shrugs again, “It would be pretty hard for a girl to keep something like that a secret, you know?” She smiles and winks.

“Ah yeah,” Steve nods stiffly, “I guess it would.”

Suddenly, Bucky’s mind jumps a gap he would’ve rather left gaping. He imagines Steve on his knees, bent forward with his face buried between Angie’s legs. Her face is flushed and she’s tugging on his hair just like—

Jealousy soaks acid-hot through Bucky’s stomach. It pulls the color from his face and floods sour into his mouth. _Does he want a girl like that?_ Without warning, what had been arousing before, is now sickening. Bucky’s lungs shrivel up and he holds his breath until Angie leaves the room.

Steve gives him a look and sighs deeply. Bucky can’t respond, suddenly tongue-tied and nauseous. He walks over to Steve and says, “Do you want that?”

“What?” Steve’s eyes flit back and forth between Bucky’s.

“Do you want her? Is that the kind of girl you want to taste?”

“Oh,” Steve’s head snaps back like he’s been struck. He brings both hands up in front of his chest, then drops them, circles Bucky’s waist, and pulls him close, “No. No no no. I don’t—” Steve shakes his head quickly, “I don’t want that. Hey,” he ducks his chin until Bucky meets his eyes, “I don’t want that, okay?”

“At all? Or just not her? Or not now?”

“No,” Steve looks surprised, “Not at all. I don’t— I didn’t mean— I just— I just think about that stuff, you know? Like, my mind just wanders. And I like—” Steve trips over the words, “It’s hot to say it. To you. To tell you. About— about dreams. Or, you know— fantasies. Whatever you want to call that. All I want to do is go home and take a shower with you.”

Bucky nods.

“Okay?” Steve studies his face.

“Yeah.”

It’s not that the boat is never rocked. Stability is not the never-moving constancy of land—even shaky, jealous you knows that would be suffocating—stability is your trust in the buoyancy of the thing. Even when threatening waves make your stomach lurch, they roll past. Even when a thought looms dark and distorts like a shadow puppet on the wall, you can wait out the illusion. 

Steve puts his hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades, “You sure?”

“Yeah. Just,” Bucky finally relaxes into Steve’s arms and sets his head on Steve’s shoulder, “promise you’ll tell me if you do actually want that stuff, okay?”

Steve nods and whispers, “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

It’s raining and they’re still twenty blocks from home. Bucky likes to wait under cover when it comes down like this, then walk home when the sun peeks out and starts steaming it off the sidewalks.

Bucky finds a nook—a little notch in the side of a building, between the rainspout and the fire escape—and Steve makes it comfortable. He takes off his coat and drapes it over Bucky’s shoulders, then tucks his arms under Bucky’s and pulls him into his chest.

“I take care of you,” Steve murmurs.

“I know.” _I love it. I love the way you look at me. I love the way you watch me when you think I’m focused on something else, the way I can catch you staring. You always look at me like you’re in love with me._ Stop swallowing this stuff. Bucky says, “I love it.”

A pause. Steve makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat. He says, “Good,” and kisses Bucky’s temple.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your endless patience! You can read more about where I've been and where I'm going on tumblr. Final chapters will be up over the next three to four days. :)


	11. Show Some Compassion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack suggestion!  
> 3am (JiKay Remix) by Vaski  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIHru8XGS0Q
> 
> (And here's the song I was thinking of when I wrote the dance club scene!)  
> Without You (Flux Pavilion and Dr. P Remix) by Dillon Francis   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFLJ_JgJ2Yc

Steve knows Bucky will enter silently, so he doesn’t bother listening. He lies still on his back, stroking his cock loosely with one hand. 

He’s getting better and better at hanging at the top of the arc. Steve’s body is humming but he won’t give it quite enough of what it wants. 

Aggression requires precision and Steve intuitively knew how to use his body for combat the second he emerged from the Vita-ray chamber. It’s a forceful clarifying and simplifying, like a glass tube purifying itself so light can shoot straight through. He’s a vessel for his strength; he just has to get out of its way.

But sex? Sex is so much more human than combat. It requires a breadth of emotion that’s not good for much besides the euphoria of living. Pleasure can be taken and aggression can get it for you, but connection requires vulnerability. That’s easy because his smile rips you open. Release demands trust and patience and curiosity and freedom from judgement before it grants you ecstasy, and each of those must be carefully built up and protected. It sounds complicated and a past self, the version of you that hungered for battlefield satisfaction, would have said it sounds exhausting. But you, here and now you, soft and melted you, knows it’s just one deep breath after another.

The you that’s sprawled on the hardwood floor with a thick plug in his ass, maybe ten minutes from coming, at the most, knows his body knows the way. Even without your coaxing, it takes itself to a more peaceful, more undone state. Your mind falls in love and your body falls after it. It gathers the pieces that you are blind to and slots them in when aggression starts to fade.

Bucky comes in through the window. He drops his bag and the quiet thud says, _Hi there. What do we have here? What have you been up to while I was out?_

Bucky walks over. He pauses between each step. He makes Steve wait a little longer. When he kneels between Steve’s legs, a fierce shiver runs up his back and warns him he can’t hold out much longer.

Their eyes meet. Bucky grins. Buckle. Belt. Pants. Lube. Bucky twists the base of the plug and Steve whimpers. He eases it out and while Steve’s body is shuddering and jumping at the emptiness, Bucky slowly fucks into him. He stays deep, so deep the short hairs at the base of his cock tickle the skin of Steve’s ass, and leans forward.

Only then, with their bodies spread and melted together, does Bucky whisper, “Hi.”

The wash rises up. Warm water around your neck. Steve says, “Hey,” and feels full. 

Bucky treats him like a wrapped present. He looks him over, touches so lightly like he might tear the paper. He holds Steve’s knees and pulses, slow and small, careful not to make Steve come. He holds Steve’s head and fucks Steve’s ear with his tongue.

“Try something for me,” Bucky’s breath is uneven. “Hold your breath. Just for a couple seconds.”

Steve does it without hesitation. For a second, nothing changes, then his body catches. It feels like his insides are being wound around a tightening screw. He rides it until his legs start to shake, then exhales a moan, and holds his breath again.

Bucky grins over him, eyes on Steve’s face. “Feels good, huh?” His voice is dark and pleased.

Steve nods uselessly, his chin rising and dropping twice. 

Bucky says, “Keep going,” and starts lengthening his strokes. They slip from syrup-slow play to the unstoppable rhythm of fucking. Steve can’t feel his feet, can’t feel his face. Pleasure consumes him and carries him up.

The you that had something to prove never felt anything like this. No victory was ever so sweet as this surrender.

 

* * *

 

“I want something new to fuck you on.”

Steve looks up from his scrambled eggs, “Oh.” His looks at Bucky’s face, out at their sparse apartment, and back at Bucky’s face.

Bucky snorts. He adds, “I want to be able to fuck you standing.”

Steve blinks, “Me standing? Or you standing?”

“Me standing.” Bucky points at his own chest. He makes a small, obscene thrust with his hips, “For leverage.”

Steve laughs at that. He texts Sam for store recommendations and within the hour they’re out the door and headed to IKEA.

“So,” they’re wandering down what appears to be the only path through the store, following arrows on the floor, “What are we looking for? You want a bed frame?”

Bucky shrugs, “Don’t know if that’ll be high enough. And I don’t want to sleep on a bed frame, so that seems like a waste.”

“Okay,” Steve nods, glances at the row of office chairs, “So we’re just buying something to fuck on.”

“Yeah,” Bucky deadpans. Or maybe this doesn’t seem strange to him.

“A chair?”

“Cramped.” Bucky runs his hand over a stone countertop as they walk past the model kitchens, “And unstable.”

“Table?”

“Maybe,” Bucky cocks his head, “I want it to be big enough for you and nothing else.”

They round the corner into the dinner table section and Steve says, “I’m not sure these guys make a table that can hold me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky looks quickly over his shoulder, which makes Steve’s neck tense. Bucky mumbles, “Better try before we buy,” and collides with him.

Steve feels his feet leave the floor and reflexively grabs Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky sets him down gently on a nearby table.

“Bucky,” Steve hisses.

“Relax,” Bucky takes a step back with his arms extended, motioning for Steve to stay seated. “I’m not going to take your pants off. But we’re not buying anything you can’t sit on.”

Steve keeps his arms raised in front of him like he can will himself to be lighter, “You’re so practical.”

“Can you wiggle back and forth? See if it moves?” Bucky sounds sincere, so Steve shifts his weight side to side, making the table rock. Bucky snorts and covers his mouth. 

Steve jumps off and swats his arm. His mind jumps tracks for a second and out of nowhere he wonders if this table will outlast them both. If it’ll still be balancing on its four legs in someone’s dining room two hundred years from now, when they’ve both been underground for years. He crushes the thought in a flash. Like a fly on the window, dead before he could think to show some compassion.

_What’s the count now? Four thousand or four?_ Either way it’s one less than it was. Always less, never more.

Steve’s impatience splinters up into his thoughts, _no it’s always one more. It’s always the next embrace. It’s always another sunrise. Another touch. Another kiss._ You’ll paint the whole world grey if you keep smearing this ash around. You have to learn to see the bright side, to look forward instead of counting down. 

“Hey,” Bucky is watching him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to do this later?”

“Nope. Let’s do it now.”

“Okay,” Bucky grabs his hand and squeezes.

They walk from the dining room display past the couches and the beds. Steve tugs up the hem of his jacket sleeve so his wrist brushes against Bucky’s. He casually sits on a few wide shelves and work benches, but none win Bucky’s approval.

They find a heavy steel storage unit that’s just wide enough and not too long. It doesn’t rock under Steve’s weight or make threatening noises when he pushes lightly on it.

Bucky steps closer to where Steve is sitting, so his hips are just in front of Steve’s knees. He puts a hand on Steve’s knee and looks down, “Height seems about right.” There’s that tiger grin. 

Steve lowers his voice, “But remember, you’ve got your boots on. You’ll be barefoot at home.”

Bucky sucks his lower lip thoughtfully. He tips his head to the side and smiles. Thick lashes, lines under his eyes. Those shadows look so alive. The fluorescents wash out his beautiful skin and make the edge of his lips look like an outline. 

Steve stares. His chest buckles and for a moment it feels like blood and breath have switched places. He grabs Bucky’s hand like he’s falling. Bucky’s eyes startle to wide and sharp. Steve bends his head and kisses Bucky’s knuckles until the feeling passes.

 

* * *

 

Bucky never said how he found the show. Nor did he ask if Steve wanted to go. They just went. It was in the back of a badly lit bar. The stage was four shipping pallets pushed together and covered with a rug. Most of the crowd was young-looking men in thick coats speaking Russian or something similar. 

Bucky led Steve to a small table. The two men sitting closest to them had twangy Belarusian accents. A man in a black turtleneck took the stage and addressed the crowd in Russian. The crowd heckled and hollered back. He swatted at them dismissively and the two Belarusian men laughed.

The announcer called out a name and backed off the stage. Someone jogged up from the audience and leapt up in front of the mic. He took off a pair of dark sunglasses and muttered to himself in Russian. The crowd tittered.

Steve looked at Bucky. He was slouched in his chair, resting with one elbow on the table and his head in his hand. The thinest smile twitched over his lips. The man on stage made jokes and the crowd laughed. Bucky took them to a Russian stand-up show.

Steve watched Bucky for most of the evening. He laughed when Bucky laughed. There was something about it that made his chest ache but he didn’t care to look too closely. Steve didn’t ask for reasons but he guessed at them. Bucky seemed to avoid Russian more than any other language he spoke. Maybe he wanted to give the words a second chance, to mean something funny instead of—

Steve drifted off into a fantasy of learning perfect Russian and surprising Bucky by just switching into the language one day. He’d try to talk dirty in bed and make Bucky laugh with his terrible grasp of Russian slang.

 

* * *

 

“We’re going camping.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

Bucky gives Steve an incredulous look. “If you don’t already know, I’m not going to miss the chance to surprise you.”

Steve thinks about that for a second. “Why are we going camping?”

Steve expects a shrug or a grin but Bucky says, “I think you’re too considerate of the neighbors.”

They look at each other for a second. “What do you mean?”

“Why do I have to spell everything out for you?” Bucky asks, his voice lilting and playful, “Think about it.”

Steve blinks, “Does it have to do with our monopoly on roof access?”

Bucky laughs and shakes his head. He steps in until they’re close enough to kiss. “No. Guess again.”

“I give up.”

Bucky nudges the tip of Steve’s nose with his lower lip. “Because,” he drawls, “I think somebody wants to be a little louder than he is now.”

Steve blushes in spite of himself. He says nothing.

“So I just figured we take a little trip someplace,” Bucky’s hands are on his lower back, “we won’t have an accidental audience,” He lowers his head to speak against Steve’s lips, “and see just how loud he wants to be.”

 

* * *

 

“Where’d this come from?” Steve holds up a book with an ambiguous cover but an unambiguous title—A Beginner’s Guide to Anal Sex—printed along the spine.

Bucky looks up, “The library.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“They have books like this at the library?”

“Yeah.”

Steve pauses. “Anything good in here?”

Bucky cocks a grin. He shrugs.

Steve smiles back and lets him have his secrets. He sets the book down and— “Wait,” he turns back to Bucky, “you have a library card?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you probably have someone else’s library card.”

Bucky points at him with a cocked index finger and thumb, like a Bucky from a black and white war propaganda film, “Exactly.”

 

* * *

 

Adventure means taking risks that may not pay off. If you’re afraid of what might happen, you call it a gamble. But risk doesn’t settle over you the way it does for most people. It slips off along the way like a badly tied cloak. Somewhere between where you started and where you ended up, what was uncertain lost its question mark.

They’re soaking in the diffuse sunshine of a mall food court at midday. Steve taps Bucky’s leg. “What if I told you,” Steve keeps his voice low, “that I had a surprise for you?”

Bucky looks at him. His eyes are peaceful like this. He says, “Should I be excited or worried?”

“Excited.”

“Then I’m excited.”

Steve nudges Bucky’s knee with his own. “What if I told you I’ve had a plug in since this morning?”

Bucky face melts, “I’d hope you hadn’t suddenly become a great liar.”

“You know me,” Steve shrugs, “Abe Lincoln over here.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, grin broadening.

Steve lets a pause stretch and revels in the way Bucky’s eyes flit over him, wait for his cue, “So you gonna help me out with that, or what?”

Bucky chews his lip, “You want me to take it out?”

Steve’s cock twitches before he’s even said the words, “Only if you’ll fill me up with something else.”

Bucky’s face is serious now, “Did you have something in mind?”

Steve plays with the time between responses, stringing him along, turning him on with the wait. He looks up at the ceiling, then back at Bucky, “Maybe. Not sure if it’ll be thick enough for me though.”

Bucky’s eyebrows lift, “Don’t worry about that. It’ll be thick enough.”

They’re speaking at normal volume, choosing carefully innocuous words. “I don’t know,” Steve smiles, “I’m pretty loose.”

Bucky huffs. Impatience makes him direct, “You just worry about having enough lube,” he leans forward, speaking in a quick whisper, “so you can take it as fast and deep as I’m going to give it to you.”

Steve lowers his voice to match, “Big talk.”

Bucky’s face is dark, like he’s the one with the surprise, “Yeah. Meet me in the bathroom.”

It’s not the first time they’ve fucked in a public bathroom, but Steve feels weak in the knees. He’s so turned on from hours of non-stop stimulation that he shivers when he locks the door.

Bucky’s already on his knees, one hand resting absently on his crotch. He pulls Steve over with a hand behind his knee and hustles his pants down to his ankles. He takes Steve into his mouth and feels back between his legs until his fingers land on the base of the plug. He moans and the vibration makes Steve’s mouth drop open. 

Bucky sucks hard, taking Steve to the edge faster than usual. When Bucky doesn’t slow down, Steve realizes he may have to wait even longer to get Bucky’s cock inside him. There’s something a little desperate about it, an urgency beyond the desire to get off without getting caught.

Steve barely lasts three minutes. He covers his mouth when he comes, but can’t muffle all the sounds. Bucky presses up on the plug to keep Steve’s convulsing body from pushing it out. When Bucky finally lets him go, Steve’s body feels so thick and full he’s not sure he can walk. Everything behind his cock feels swollen and sensitive, like he’d have to come again and again to be satisfied.

Steve’s legs give up and he melts down the bathroom door. Slouched on the floor, he watches Bucky wash his mouth out and grin at him in the mirror’s reflection.

“Hey Buck,”

“Hey,” Bucky turns around like— _fancy seeing you here._

_Here’s what I want to say._ Steve feels like his mind is clearing its throat. _When I tell you something I’ve thought about—dreamed about?—it feels like—_

“Come here.”

“You want me to sit on this nasty floor with you?” Bucky dries his hands off on his trousers.

“Yeah.”

_It feels like standing on the top of a flag pole. Unbelievably dangerous. Even impossible. The only thing I have keeping me up here is you. And what I have with you. So to say, I want something more, or something else, or fuck everything, I want anything that feels good, I want it all, it’s like letting go of your hand for a second._

_Everything sparks, like the air is electric. I can feel it rushing around me and my whole body feels like it’s tipping on the horizon. You know that feeling? When you’re balancing on something and you can’t believe you’re really staying up? Like you’re going to fall any second? And then I take your hand again, and I step out of that strange place and come back to our world. I like it here. I wouldn’t ever change it._

“So,” Steve’s tone is serious, “I want to tell you something about— fantasies.”

“Okay.” 

_Sex can be just the two of us, taking shelter in each other. I love that, and I don’t want to lose it. But sex can be something else too. It can be an escape. It gives me a way to feel— I don’t know, to feel something different. Something dangerous._

_It’s erotic to make love to you because I love you. My mind can’t believe that I get the chance to touch you like that, to make you feel good. But there are all sorts of other things my mind can’t believe and I get a rush from giving those things a voice. I get the same everything-is-upside-down feeling just by telling you I want to taste a woman._

_You’ve made me a better and a braver man, and because of that I can say I’ve chased that high in much more destructive ways. I’ve felt that same electric air when I was falling through it, thinking I was living my last seconds. I think my grip on life is too loose, or my faith in beating the odds is too great. So when I first told you I wanted a cock to suck while you fucked my ass, and I felt that buzz, I dove after it and didn’t think twice. It felt like the last puzzle piece falling into place._

_I don’t want you to think that we’ve lost something, or that I’m looking for something else. I love you. I want to be with you. What I’m trying to say is sex isn’t love. Or isn’t just love. Sex can be both. It can be a proclamation—a commitment—and it can also be about sharing these sticky little secrets._

_But not if it’s hurting you. And that’s what I’m realizing. That maybe I’ve made another selfish decision. I thought I had found a cure for my loose grip but I think I left you hanging, unsure of what it all meant. I owe you an apology, and an explanation._

“I love you. I love what we have.” Steve’s voice cracks and Bucky’s brow knits with concern, “When I tell you I ‘want’ something during sex— I get this incredible rush. And I think I’ve hurt you.”

Bucky starts shaking his head and Steve shushes him.

“I don’t think I explained myself very well. I just started saying stuff and I understand how they felt like requests. The truth of it is, I get that buzz just from showing you those thoughts. Just from sharing them.”

Bucky nods, his eyes still dark with worry.

“Because—” Steve’s voice breaks and he swallows, “Because you’ve shown me so much of yourself. Even the darker parts.”

Bucky is very still. After a pause, he nods again.

“And I wanted to show you,” Steve shrugs, whispering now, “that I have some dark parts, too.”

Bucky’s eyes are wet along the bottom lid.

“I just wanted to show you that I’m human too. That’s all we are,” Steve smiles at the irony, “just human after all.”

Bucky laughs and it comes out shaky. He wraps both arms around Steve and they hold each other on the bathroom floor. Steve’s heart feels like it’s two feet in front of his chest, beating next to Bucky’s.

“So,” Steve says to Bucky’s shoulder, unwilling to let him go, “Answer me honestly. Do you want me to stop saying that stuff?”

“No,” Bucky says immediately. “It’s just— I’m not in your head. I don’t know why you say what you say. I like that it gets you off,” Bucky makes a growly sound in the back of his throat and Steve laughs, “but I don’t know when to take you seriously.”

“Okay. What should I say?”

“Just—” Bucky leans back, “Say whatever you want during sex. And it won’t mean anything. But, if you want it to mean something. If you really want something—” Bucky pauses for emphasis, “anything at all, then say it first thing in the morning, without touching me or yourself or moaning or whatever.” Steve interrupts him with laughter again, and Bucky grins, “Then I’ll know you mean it. Deal?”

“Yeah,” Steve kisses him, “Deal.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky takes them back to the club the same way he got them there the first time: navigating from the back seat of Steve’s bike. He leads Steve through the city with gestures and nudges. They park on the same block but the street lights feel different. They’re still just as yellow but they feel less real than the night beyond their reach.

Instead of little beacons leading them along murky grey, lightless sidewalks, they’re just pools of light floating in the darkness. Like oil slicks. You’re more at home in the dark now and light almost feels like an intrusion. Not because you’ve poisoned yourself, dyed your insides inky black with something you shouldn’t have eaten—life’s not giving the chance to make decisions like that anymore—and not because you’re more solid now or the night’s blurry edges aren’t so ominous.

It’s because you’re glass. Like you’ve always been. Who knows what you’re made of. Any attempt to look in just shows what’s on the other side. You’re see-through and he knows it and you’re not afraid of anything anymore. So let the darkness take you. It can come and blacken you through just like the sun lights you up. Why not? It’s not permanent. And the shadows provide so many opportunities—

Bucky pays the cover. The collar on his jacket is popped and he keeps his head down as they weave from the periphery of the crowd into its core. He throws a grin over his shoulder like he’s just realized he can charm you.

Bucky dances close and lets his hands wander. He grabs Steve’s ass and grinds against his hip, smirking from behind his untamed hair. Steve pulls the brim of his hat a little lower and rests his arms on Bucky’s shoulders like— _do what you want._

He’s thinking up things to do to you; you can see it on his face. Music seems to grab Bucky by the nose and lead him around. Loud sounds make his body bend to their will and music that makes the floor shake seems to turn him on. Over time, his turn ons have become yours, because his arousal is your arousal. It still doesn’t sound like music to Steve’s ears, but his cock thickens on cue.

Bucky’s making eyes at him like it’s not a sure thing he’s taking Steve home at the end of the night. Steve feels his face heat up and soaks in the attention. He knows the movement doesn’t matter. Bucky’s a better dancer and a natural leader, even though he’s quick to deny that. He shows Steve how to move with a tight grip on his hip and the occasional prompt, “slow,” “yeah, like that,” “wait for it,” “follow me.”

Steve’s out his depth but feeling content. _Glass floats, right? Yeah, pretty sure. Just float. Let him steer._

A slower, quieter song comes on and Steve leans in, yells in Bucky’s ear, “You have any idea how good you look?”

Bucky smiles. He leans back and makes Steve read his lips, _no, tell me._ Always smoother than you. Always cooler, always calmer. So self-assured, even when he was shaky and re-learning how to live.

Steve yells in his ear again because that’s his style, “Feels like the last time we were here.” He’s fumbling around with his hands behind Bucky’s head, untangling them from Bucky’s hair, owning his clumsiness without embarrassment.

Bucky nods with soft eyes. He ducks his head and grabs Steve’s chin to tilt his head. Steve’s stomach blooms and urges, _touch me like that again._   

Bucky says, “It was so fucking hard not to touch you.”

They’re cheek to cheek. Steve nuzzles Bucky’s ear when he talks, “We were touching.”

“Not like I wanted to.”

“How’s that?”

Bucky looks at Steve with lidded eyes and says, “You’re not ready for that.” The glint in his eye says he’s playing but his mouth is set in a serious shape.

It feels like a challenge. Steve mouths back, _show me._

Bucky doesn’t reply. He just tucks Steve back into the pocket between his hips and his chest. Bucky’s hand wanders up under Steve’s jacket and strokes his spine.

He chooses his moment and catches Steve unprepared. The beat drops and in a flash, Bucky’s hand presses flat to Steve’s lower back. He closes the gap between them, foreheads pressed together, hips grinding hard and thick, enough friction to make Steve’s body shudder. Dirty and close. So hot it feels like fucking.

But not quite. Not quite fucking because Bucky is all action, no concern. He’s taking what he wants without asking. There are fewer questions when your clothes are on, fewer things to worry about when you’re not escalating toward orgasm. Just messing around to music, making sparks with the flint and tinder of explicit intentions.

He’s so good at it. Bucky closes his eyes and rides effortlessly through their swivel and dip. He’s in control; the hand on Steve’s back is not making suggestions. When the vocals bark, Bucky snarls, “Like this?”

Steve nods against him, their hair rubbing together. The pressure and friction take him farther than he would have thought he could go in a crowd of people. His body is blind to the circumstances, lost in Bucky’s cocky possessiveness.

Gone are the slight pressure and well-timed nudges. It’s just a rough grip and a hunger to get closer. Bucky’s jaw flexes. The filthy grind of his hips says, _Here you go. Here’s all of me. Here’s what I am and how I want you._

Bucky lifts his chin and kisses him. Steve’s body reacts like it’s never felt the press of a man’s lips. Shock sprints up his spine and grabs the sensation. It floats back down to his gut, pours out that soft heat in his groin, and calls up to his mind, _more, more like that._

Steve grabs Bucky’s head and kisses him fiercely. He opens his mouth and demands a deeper pleasure. His hat tips back on his head, now forgotten.

Stumble, trip. Back through the dark to someplace darker. Tight grip on his hand, sensitive weight between your legs. There’s an unlit hallway past the bathrooms. Just before a door with an Employees Only sticker there’s a curtain drawn over a doorway. Shove him in among the folding chairs and stacked tables and hit your knees.

Steve grabs Bucky’s cock through his trousers and here, a short way away from the thudding speakers, he can hear the sound Bucky wrings out of himself. Undo the buckle, tug down the fabric. His cock tastes different, better even, in this strange place. The unusual smell of it, like the wood and upholstery of an old theatre, mixes with the intoxicating scent of Bucky’s skin and the clean snap of his soap. 

Steve sticks out his tongue and presses into the skin at the base of Bucky’s cock when he sucks him down. He runs his hand up Bucky’s stomach, tugs at the line of hairs under his navel. Steve groans and slides the head of Bucky’s cock back and forth along the ridges on the roof his mouth. 

Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s head. It’s shaking. Steve looks up. Bucky’s lips are slack and his eyes are glassy. He gives Steve a wrecked grin and thrusts once into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

Fury has sent them to a perfectly real-looking fake city. It’s four hours from the Las Vegas airport in the-middle-of-nowhere Nevada. There are miles of concrete buildings, old houses, incongruous new construction, even placeless monuments and empty museums, but no people. Not even the trappings of past people, no trash, no cars, no advertisements. The density of the streets reminds Steve of Paris.

He’s leading a team of thirty recruits through a week-long closed-course field simulation. Bucky “agreed” to come along as an assistant trainer, though they both knew there was no way Steve was going alone.

On the first night, a siren sends the recruits scrambling into an Emergency Response drill. They’re camped in teams of two or three across the city, squatting in houses and office buildings. They have four minutes to make it to the rendezvous point on the roof of the tallest building in town.

Steve and Bucky are standing alone on the roof in full combat gear. Steve’s watch says there are two minutes and twenty one seconds left. He raises his eyebrows at Bucky, who smirks. The recruits are far too slow. At least one team should have shown up by now. Steve looks over the edge of the building.

A quick kiss on your ear. Just a soft press and the warmth of his breath. Steve doesn’t turn around immediately. The freezing desert night air wisps by and Steve hears, _one less or one more?_

He looks back at Bucky in time to see him tug his mask up over his nose. Bucky smiles with his eyes and drops off the side of the building without a word.

 


	12. So Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack suggestion!
> 
> Even Though (Reid Remix) by Giraffage ft. XXYYXX  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-itCLqHggDE

They haven’t been skin-to-skin in six days. There are recruits everywhere and no privacy. To make matters worse, one of them blew out his knee on the second day and has been camping with Steve and Bucky.

They all sleep in the same room because the most important rule for a team in the field is to never split up. Bucky found himself starved for touch after just twelve hours in those stifling conditions. Since then, he’s tried everything to catch Steve alone. But other than the occasional kiss or quick embrace, he hasn’t had much luck. Steve takes training very seriously.

It’s 2:36 am and Bucky is awake in his sleeping bag. He slips out and breaks the second most important rule for teams in the field: never leave a sleeping man alone. The guy with the busted knee will probably be fine in this ghost town of an office building.

Bucky takes the stairs three at a time, tucking in his shirt as he goes. He snags a bag he hid in an empty firehose cabinet and sprints to the roof.

Three fingers on the steel door. Bucky taped the latch and greased the hinges yesterday so the door opens without a sound. Push it open an inch and look for Steve. He’s right where he should be, at the south edge of the roof with his eye to his scope.

Bucky opens the door fully and rolls out a thin strip of fabric. An old trick for moving silently over a gravel covered roof. The instructions in his mind for side-stepping quickly across the cloth seem to only come in Russian.

Bucky stops twenty feet from the door and sets down his bag. He moves quickly and silently, spreading a wool blanket, placing three small bowls and two bottles, lighting a candle he found in the janitor’s closet.

He stands on the blanket and lifts the edge of the fabric strip that runs all the way back to the rooftop entrance. He flicks it back the way it came with a practiced arm. It floats like a ribbon through the air and disappears back through the doorway.

Bucky sits down, crosses his legs, and takes a deep breath. Immediately, Steve’s shoulders tense. He freezes, listening to the sound of Bucky breathing when he doesn’t care if someone hears, then tips his scope half an inch to the side. Bucky watches him survey the roof in the reflection of his scope’s lens.

Steve says, “You’re early,” before he turns around.

“Not too early.” Bucky keeps watch from the roof between 3 and 6 a.m., the darkest hours of the night. He braces his arms behind himself and leans back, “I think we have just enough time for a picnic.”

Steve glances at his watch. “How’s Justin?”

“Asleep.”

Steve sighs, “We have to take these drills seriously so they understand why the rules are the way they are.”

“He’ll be okay for twenty minutes,” Bucky pats the blanket next to him, “Come sit with me.”

Steve comes without protest. He sits across from Bucky instead of next to him. Probably wary since Bucky tackled him in the stairwell a couple days ago and sucked a bruise below his collar.

Steve laughs when he sees the bottles, “Apple juice?”

“Yes,” Bucky nods, “Very special. Imported from California.”

“Where did these come from?” 

“I lifted them from the delivery driver that dropped off the water tanks.”

Steve nods and tips his chin at the bowls, “And those?”

“Those I brought.”

Bucky opens them one at a time. The first holds dried apple slices. Steve’s favorite snack when they were stationed in Italy. Bucky remembers. On his own, without pain. He just remembers. He can remember Steve tucking them furtively into his last clean pair of socks to keep them dry when the rain wouldn’t stop coming down.

Steve says nothing. He blinks twice and the night feels different.

The second holds oatmeal. It’s plain. No syrup, no brown sugar. Some bits are a little too brown, just like the oats they burned as kids.

The last is full of little things. There’s three orange slices covered in peanut butter, a pack of Juicy Fruit, a small pile of Nerds. All foods they’ve discovered together. 

Steve puts his hand over his mouth. He looks up at Bucky with wet eyes.

It’s windy in the desert and the air carries this crackly sound around. It sounds like dry things tumbling over other dry things. Comforting. Like the rustle of tree leaves back home.

Bucky puts his gloved hand on Steve’s knee and smiles.

 

* * *

 

Bucky barely makes it through the door. The want under his skin is so strong he feels dizzy and sick. His nerves are jumping like a Richter-scale needle, spiking up and down, off the edges of the page. He swallows and hears his breath already lilting into a shallow inhale chased by a quick exhale.

Steve drops the bags and turns to face him. He scratches his chest with one hand.

Take him. To the floor, to the bed, to the couch, to the new metal table that’s just his size. Hands on his body, mouth on his skin. Any touch, _please, please touch me. Anywhere. I’ve missed you. Make me feel. Make me yours._

Bucky closes the distance between them. His boots on the wood floor sound falsely commanding. He’s tied to a line and has no choice but to reel himself in to shore.

They land on the bed, gasping and groping. Bucky’s breathing appreciative sounds that demand more. He ends up on his back with his jacket half off and his shirt pushed up. Steve lays next to him, kissing his neck and murmuring in his ear. He jerks Bucky off with two slick hands and so much lube that Bucky’s face flushes and prickles. So slippery that it’s hardly friction, like a curtain of water between his skin and Steve’s.

 

* * *

 

They’re back at the club the next night, which happens to be a Tuesday, if either of them really stopped to think about the days of the week. Trading silent desert lookouts for deafening sound in a black box.

Steve has Bucky turned around this time, dancing in his lap. He’s breathing down Bucky’s neck. Getting better at leading but his hands are always too tight or not tight enough. When Bucky loses his rhythm, he reaches behind and grabs Steve’s ass, locking their bodies together again. He can feel Steve laugh, his chest shaking, and puts a hand behind Steve’s head. Bucky pulls him down and Steve kisses Bucky’s neck. His right thumb tucks into the waistband of Bucky’s trousers and tugs.

With Steve’s face tucked away, Bucky is the first to notice the fight. He tenses and Steve stops dancing. In the split second before he releases Bucky, his hands press flat and close, like he can keep Bucky safe simply by holding him. 

The music stops and the lights come up. There’s a crowd forming by the bar and the distinct sound of a woman crying. It’s one of those hard-wired sounds that catches even Bucky’s retrained ears. A plea. A warning. A signal. But always, a call for help.

Isn’t it funny how humans need each other? Isn’t it strange that both the needer and the needed want to play their roles? Why should the sound of a stranger in pain compel us to risk our own well-being? Is it just to make the sounds stop? Are those horrible, helpless sounds really pain in the air, suffering in wave form, that worms its way into our ears and hurts us too?

Some people are better at ignoring the calls than others. They balance out those who might just throw themselves after a tape-recording of someone crying. Those who do nothing to protect themselves but stamp an insignia on their chest and call themselves heroes.

“We need to leave.” Bucky looks back toward the emergency exits behind the DJ’s stage.

Steve tips his head toward the chaos, “Let’s see if we can help.”

“No, we should really leave.”

Steve’s brow furrows, “Why?”

“Because I’m really not supposed to have a gun in here.”

Steve stares, then blinks, “You’re armed?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you just carried knives now.”

“Not when we go somewhere there are definitely guns.”

“Can’t you just dump it?”

“Not with these bullets in it.” Bucky’s mouth tightens into a line. _Don’t make me explain, Steve. If someone pulls a gun on us, I have one chance. They aren’t just hollow-point. Don’t make me show you._

Steve nods and looks at the emergency exit in silent agreement. They make it to the back alleyway just as the sirens arrive out front. Bucky keeps his head down as they walk back to the bike. That old coil of shame and uncertainty keeps him quiet.

“Where do you keep it?” Steve asks. The unburdened sound of his voice surprises Bucky’s brain out of its downward spiral.

“Where do I keep what?”

“The gun.”

Bucky looks at him.

“I mean,” Steve grins crookedly, “I was uh— feeling you up back there. And I didn’t feel any gun.”

Bucky snorts. He leans into Steve’s shoulder, “Why would I put something in the way of your hands?”

“I’m not saying you’d do it on purpose,” Steve touches his chest when he speaks, clearly pleased with himself for making Bucky smile, “I’m just saying I don’t know where on earth you could have had a gun that I didn’t run across.”

Bucky cocks his head and shrugs, “I guess I still have a couple secrets, huh?”

“Yeah Buck,” Steve smiles straight ahead, giving him a little distance when words get too close, “As many as you want.”

 

* * *

 

Fury flies them back to Nevada just two weeks later. Another seven days of camping in that fake city are going to test Bucky’s patience with Steve’s “Training First” attitude. Half of the recruits have been weeded out and redirected toward jobs that can be done underground, in front of a computer.

Steve is no longer leading drills, as he’s made it clear to Fury that he won’t be leading teams on missions. But Fury was persuasive, _Your tactical expertise is unparalleled— The recruits need a role model— How are we supposed to train the next generation without the current generation—_ and Steve agreed to be a remote strategy and communications lead. In other words, Steve would be “safely inside,” as he described it to Bucky, in front of dozens of monitors, giving orders and making strategy calls in real time, without actually being in the line of fire.

Bucky promptly agreed to play the enemy in their live-fire field simulation. Maybe to give Steve and his team a worthy opponent. Maybe to stave off the boredom of another week in the desert. Maybe it was just for the long-suffering look on Steve’s face.

They part ways on Sunday afternoon with 48 hours to prepare. Bucky disappears into the desert to plan his attack. Steve vanishes into the hollow city-scape to set up a secret communications headquarters from which to monitor the mission’s progress. Bucky’s stated objective is to disable the city’s power grid and evade capture. He has other plans.

Bucky spends the first day hitchhiking. He buries his gear in the dirt and walks seven miles to the highway. He trades a trucker two hours of conversation for a ride to the nearest Walmart, where he buys $2000 worth of paintball guns and ammunition. 

It’s a live-fire test, but Bucky’s out to prove a point, not to end lives.

The cashier checks his ID three times under the light blue fraud detection light. Bucky spends the rest of his money on meal replacement shakes and wanders around the truck parking area until he finds a ride back.

He spends the second day surveying the city with binoculars and missing Steve.

Bucky makes his move just past 3 a.m. on the third day. He walks straight into the city through a gap in the surrounding chain link fence.

He already knows that the fastest way to cut the power is to blow out the transformer in the basement of the book-less library. But as soon as he cuts the line, the game ends. They’re supposed to be chasing him, but Bucky has always made a better predator than prey.

Bucky announces himself. He splatters paint across the backs of two sniper teams who were foolish enough to set up camp on buildings with industrial radio antennae on their roofs, affording him a bird’s eye view of their bird’s eye view.

Bucky hits another two recruits with blue paint when they rush between the eaves of two buildings. He typically aims for the chest but now he’s aiming for skin. The bruises will heal. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but Bucky knows pain is a better teacher than the disappointment of losing a game.

A warning bullet bites into the brick over Bucky’s head. Steady the sights and fire. Bucky sends a pellet into the trigger hand of his attacker to say— _next time, don’t hesitate._ He knows the team’s objective is his capture, and that his death is “absolutely unacceptable,” in Fury’s words, but he wonders what warnings Steve is giving them. If he’s threatening or entreating. If he’s worried. _Won’t have to worry long._

Bucky tears through four buildings before he finds one that’s too quiet. He had a heat detection sensor but left it buried in the sand outside the ghost city. Soldiers use tools, but humans use their ears, and Bucky is all human now. He noses the door to the basement open with the tip of his Airsoft rifle and hears nothing. They’ve dampened the sound of the building’s electrical and climate systems, likely to prevent interference with the communications equipment.

Steve’s team isn’t supposed to know exactly where he’s stationed so Bucky isn’t surprised to find not a single security device protecting him. _Why would he watch his back?_ Bucky sighs as he descends into the basement and slinks along the wall. _When has he ever watched his back?_  

Bucky sees his golden hair first, reflecting the light of the screens in front of him. He has on over-the-ear headphones and is speaking quietly into a microphone. Bucky had thought about playing up his Bad Guy role by jumping him and hustling him out of the building. 

But fifty-six, nearly fifty-seven, hours alone have made you soft and achy. You’re all human now. _Are all humans pudding on the inside?_ Just you. That’s just you. Loneliness pulls at you like gravity, draining the blood from your arms. It pools in your hands and makes them numb. 

He pulls down his mask, walks up behind Steve, and tugs the headphones off. No grace. Steve jumps and looks up. Bucky forgoes the cocky grin and where-the-fuck-is-your-security reprimand and lands on his knees. He wraps his arms around Steve’s waist and pulls his head and shoulders into Steve’s lap.

With his head on Steve’s thigh, his body expels its tension with a single shaky breath. Bucky nuzzles into him, fitting himself into the curve of Steve’s stomach. In the quiet, Bucky realizes he’s homesick.

Steve strokes his fingers through Bucky’s hair. He murmurs, “Hey.”

Bucky nuzzles deeper in reply. From silent and sharp to a puddle of emotion in two seconds flat. Like every fairy tale villain, you have an Achilles heel. He has strong hands and knows just what to say.

Steve bows his head and soothes him. “I missed you,” he says, “My heart almost stopped when I caught sight of you on one of the surveillance feeds.”

“And you didn’t think,” Bucky says thickly, to the fabric of Steve’s pants, “to put a surveillance camera outside your own post?”

“I figured you’d see it.” Steve runs his fingernails lightly up the back of Bucky’s neck, “and then you’d want to come in and say hello.”

Bucky snorts softly.

“Want to stay here for a while?” Steve sounds hopeful. “You’ve got everyone on edge with the uh— paint bullets. They’ll be running around for a while, trying to follow your scent.”

Bucky laughs. He sets his chin on Steve’s leg and looks up. “I can’t stay. And neither can you.”

Steve’s face tightens from disappointment to confusion to concern.

Bucky picks up a tiny ear piece resting on the communications array. He asks Steve, “Are they all on the same channel?”

“Should I,” Steve blinks, “be telling you that?”

Bucky cocks one eyebrow and smiles.

“Are you trying to seduce the answers out of me?”

Bucky chuckles. He puts in the earpiece and catches the back half of an all-clear report from one of the teams.

He motions for Steve to stand. Steve stays put.

Bucky can’t harden his voice anymore. He says plainly, “You can come with me or I’ll tranquilize you and take you with me.”

Steve stares back at him. Bucky sees the muscles in his jaw tense.

He tries reasoning with Steve, “They’ve got to learn how to operate without someone in their ear.”

“Centralized communications are at the core of Fury’s mission tactics. They need to trust that I will tell them everything they need to know.”

Bucky nods, “And when you can’t? When you don’t know what they need to know?”

“We’ll do our best. I can see a hundred times more than they can.”

“Exactly. They shut down their eyes and ears because they expect you to do the work for them.”

“Frankly, it’s not their job to make decisions.”

“That doesn’t mean they’ll never have to.” He looks squarely at Steve, “This is a test. I’m only carrying paint balls. No one is going to die. They need this.”

Steve sighs. He says quietly, “I think you need this. I think you’re just doing it your way, having your fun.”

Bucky can feel the words forming on the tip of his tongue, like a memory is sending up the next line from a script it knows too well. He feels like he should deny it, defend his intentions. Instead, Bucky smiles and says, “Maybe,” then detonates the bomb he laid on his way in. 

The sound of an engineered explosion is unlike anything else. It’s chaotic, but predictable. The loudest clap comes first; everything that follows is just the world shuddering around a newly made hole. It doesn’t send a building tumbling down a few support beams at a time, like a concrete avalanche. It’s controlled. It’s safe.

Bucky grabs Steve and hits the floor. Instinct takes over, as Bucky hoped it would, and Steve scrambles for the exit. Bucky chases him so closely his hands brush against Steve’s boots.

Steve shoves him the second they tumble through the back door, “I thought you said you were just carrying paint balls.”

“I was!” Bucky chokes on dust and laughs like a teenager, “I left my explosives at the door.”

Steve’s equipment is safe; the building won’t collapse. But Bucky keeps that knowledge to himself. He grabs Steve’s hand and runs. He drags him down an alley way, sprints across a street, and kicks in the door of an empty diner. 

Bucky gets him all the way into the kitchen before Steve pulls back, “Buck. Stop.”

Bucky turns and deadpans, “Shut up. You’re my captive now.”

“Bucky.”

Bucky grabs at him and Steve dodges it. Bucky catches hold of his belt and they grapple onto the ground. Bucky’s giggling breathlessly and Steve can’t repress his smile.

“Okay, seriously. Get off.”

“Steve. You’re my captive. I call the shots.” He’s straddling Steve now, holding his wrists on either side of his body.

“This is an uphill battle, you know that, right? We’re not doing a live-fire test with no communications. The test is done. Now let me up so I can call off the dogs.”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head, face serious, “Let the dogs bark. I want a kiss.” He leans in. 

Steve goes silent. Bucky can hear the quiet plink of dust particles from the explosion hitting the diner’s front window.

He plays his cards slowly, one after the next. Seduction is about taking your time. He braces his arms on the ground by Steve’s head and mumble-kisses, “You’re mine now,” to his lips. 

He pulls down Steve’s lower lip with the tip his thumb and kisses him again. Bucky sucks on his lip like he’s in no hurry and says, “How long do you think we have?”

“Before they find us?” Steve’s voice says he’s undecided but his eyes are dark and his hands are on Bucky’s hips.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe two minutes? You did blow up a building.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, “You think that’ll tip them off?”

“An explosion? Yeah.”

“Hm,” Bucky studies Steve’s face and pretends to think, “I guess we’ll have to get a room.”

“Buck,” Steve’s eyes have gone wide, “We are not— Tell me you’re not thinking we’re going to hide out and fuck around while the recruits search for you.”

“Oh they’ve given up on that. They think all this is staged,” Bucky points to the bug in his ear, he’s been listening to their frantic radio chatter, “Your second-in-command has taken over and called this a rescue mission.” Bucky grins, “They’re looking for you.”

Bucky stands up and extends his hand. Steve takes it. 

They trip from place to place. Bucky runs with his Airsoft gun so he can pretend he’s holding Steve hostage. He doesn’t need much convincing. Bucky kisses him and Steve pulls him closer. Too much gear covering their bodies but it’s the same familiar embrace. They make out in the back office of a warehouse, then weave over to the other side of town and hide out in a brownstone. 

Bucky can’t keep his hands to himself. He has Steve’s trousers undone and his shirt half off when they hear the front door of the house open. Another quick scramble and sprint until they’re safely tucked away in an office building. Neither man speaks much. Steve seems to have resigned himself to this game of chase. He’s coming a little further undone every time Bucky touches him.

The paintball gun in Bucky’s hand keeps his mind and body floating in-between ruthless and careless. Nothing feels real. And yes, it’s a chase, but Bucky doesn’t feel like he’s running for his life. 

Training is kind of a foreign concept if you really take the time to examine your memories. Can you remember being trained? Can you remember a fight that wasn’t for your life? Your mind comes up blank. Training is for men who don’t understand how close death is or know how to stay one step ahead of it. Men who need some kind of practice run because their instincts will fail them in a critical moment. Training is for humans. 

So train. Run, play, listen, pretend. Like war without the nausea. It feels like a dream. So it feels right to forget himself and just be with Steve.

When night comes, Bucky tugs his mask over his nose and mouth and Steve starts looking at him differently. He watches Bucky from the corner of his eye, like he doesn’t have permission to look. When they’re jogging down the stairs of yet another anonymous building, Bucky jokes they should have just jumped off the roof. He looks over his shoulder and sees Steve watching him the way he used to at Sam’s house. Like he’s cataloging every inch of something he desperately wants but can’t have.

They reach the basement and Bucky pins him to the wall. He tugs down his mask and kisses Steve with both hands on his face. Steve whimpers into his mouth and that’s the end of it. They fuck on the concrete floor. Bucky loosens Steve’s ass with his tongue, then sucks him off with two fingers inside. Steve’s loud when he comes, like there’s no one around to hear.


	13. Just Melt Into, Melt Until

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack suggestion!
> 
> Roses by The Chainsmokers ft. ROZES  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyASdjZE0R0

It feels like a binge, but there’s no reason to call it that. There is no price to pay, no such thing as too much. No reason to disparage yourself for wanting it or call it an indulgence. But when sex is all you want, and you spend hours lost in it or making your way back to it, it does color the world in a strange way.

How can it be both refuge and free fall? How can something calm you and tip you over the edge? Are bodies actually just made to lay around, feeling good? The French call orgasm ‘a little death’ and Steve can see why. It feels like an abdication from living. Let someone else navigate the pain and confusion. They can feed ambition and chase success. You’ll be in bed losing your grip on reality.

Bucky makes a lot of sounds that aren’t quite words. Steve considers them part of the background music in this post-life existence. But the noise he just made sounded distinctly Russian.

There are no rules here. Binge on pleasure, drink every drop. Steve says, “Say that again.”

Bucky makes the same string of noises right into Steve’s ear.

Steve’s chest feels like it’s been left unlocked, his rib cage spread like open doors. “What does that mean?”

“Something like—” Bucky’s lips look so full when he’s losing it but still trying to talk, “fucking amazing.”

Steve laughs, “Give me more.”

“More what?”

“More words I can’t understand.” 

 

* * *

 

Bucky acts like his mask covers his eyes too. Or maybe like no one watches him when he’s pulled it into place. _Or maybe_ , Steve tightens the straps over his chest, _he’s not like you. Maybe he doesn’t care who sees._

They’re in a repurposed riot van. The recruits are packed in shoulder-to-shoulder, and Steve is across the aisle from Bucky. No part of Bucky’s uniform is standard issue. Steve’s not sure where new jackets and trousers and boots come from, but he always seems to have what he needs.

What he’d love to know is where the masks come from. Does he go shopping for black bandanas at some wholesale store? Does Bucky cut them from a larger piece of cloth? Then hem the edges himself? Steve makes a mental note to check the stitches next time he sees one lying around. _Should I buy him a sewing machine?_

Steve looks up to see Bucky still watching him. His head is tipped back against the side of the van. His eyes are crawling down Steve’s chest. Bucky looks him over from head to toe, then holds his eyes. He doesn’t blink.

Steve blushes under his gaze, sure that the color in his cheeks gives him away. Steve holds his eyes anyway. He doesn’t telegraph his thoughts the way Bucky does, doesn’t try to send a silent message. He just looks at the man he loves. 

 

* * *

 

A two-man night post was a terrible idea. Either someone on the team has caught on, or Bucky has been working his magic behind the scenes, because they’re the only two men at the sniper post at three in the morning while small recon team canvasses four square blocks and another team tries to evade them.

Steve is manning the sniper rifle, which is loaded with blanks, and Bucky is distracting him mercilessly. He’s laying on his side next to Steve—  _you know, in case you become incapacitated. So I can take over the rifle as soon as possible. I’m serious, Steve,_ he had said with a straight face. Steve was already half way to incapacitated when Bucky’s started kissing his ear. Now Bucky is tugging at his collar, sucking on the skin of his neck.

A radio calls comes, asking for a sniper report. Bucky presses the button on his ear piece without moving back and says in a perfectly bored voice, “All clear, no sightings. Confirm your position, green team.”

In one ear, Steve hears, “Green Team leader here. Position confirmed. Captain, are we good to proceed?” In the other ear, he feels the stubble around Bucky’s lips tickling.

He’s not nearly as good an actor as Bucky. His voice sounds scratchy, like a stage whisper, “Yes, good to proceed.”

Bucky snickers and Steve pushes him with his head.

 

* * *

 

Swell and swell. The idea turns you on before you even realize you’re considering it. It drifts by, just a hazy hypothetical, feeling more like an unspoken joke without a punchline. A non-sequitur combination of ideas that makes you laugh simply because it doesn’t make sense.

So who knows why you catch it as it streams by and give it a closer look. Feeling mostly curious, vaguely aware of your own reactive rejection muttering in the back of your mind, you think— _What if he choked me?_

Or not even that, what if he just pressed down for a second? What if he just touched me? And held his hand there? Would he do it? Would he want to?

The body knows what it wants so it asks. Steve stops their rhythm and says, “Put your hand on my neck.”

Bucky looks up sharply.

Back up, back up. “Can you— Will you put your hand on my neck?”

Bucky pushes up onto his forearms. He takes a breath and lets it out. He blinks twice. “Like, how do you want it?” He gestures over Steve’s neck, rotating his hand one way and then the other.

Steve takes Bucky’s hand in both of his own and bring it to his neck. He presses down to encourage Bucky to do the same. Bucky is so careful, watching Steve’s face intently, increasing the pressure as slowly as he can.

When he can feel the full breadth of Bucky’s hand against his skin, Steve says, “That’s good.” He nods, and Bucky stares back. Steve clarifies, “Okay, keep going.”

Bucky starts slow, never taking his eyes from Steve’s face.

Steve closes his eyes. He says, “Harder,” then “More,” then— suddenly it’s too much. The pressure feels uncomfortable, abruptly out of place. Steve says, “Stop,” and Bucky’s hands flies away.

Steve looks up to see Bucky still staring, his eyes wide and searching.

“That was good. You did good,” He strokes a hand through Bucky’s hair, “I just didn’t uh— want it anymore.”

Bucky nods. They both sit still for a second. “Do you,” Bucky rubs his nose, “want to keep going?”

“Yeah.” Steve smiles. It doesn’t feel as bad as you thought it would, to ask for less instead of more.

 

* * *

 

In the elevator. Confined spaces making sparks like they always do. Bucky’s too close and Steve can feel his body rousing itself. They’re staying in a safe room in an huge apartment complex on the outskirts of Las Vegas before flying home tomorrow morning. 

Someone helpful set up separate bedrooms. Steve wants Bucky to keep his bag in his own room, to create the thinnest illusion that he’s staying there, but Bucky refuses. And by the way he’s leaning against the elevator’s back wall, Steve knows he won’t have any luck persuading him to drop his bag anywhere but immediately inside the door of Steve’s room.

Sure enough, Bucky tails him like a shadow. He hasn’t pulled down his mask, apparently set on being as conspicuous as possible this evening. He’s way too close as Steve unlocks the door and shoves Steve through the doorway as soon as it opens.

Pushing, chest to chest. Steve reaches up to tug down Bucky’s mask for a kiss.

“Leave it,” Bucky growls.

What’s that? Arousal? Hunger? Relief? Whatever it is, Steve chokes on it. He makes a cut off sound and nods and nods. _Yeah, god, leave it on. Jesus Christ._

Lost for words, Steve starts to undress him as quickly as possible. The jacket goes first, but only as far as his shoulders. His shirt gets rumpled up and Steve huffs over the skin of his chest like he’s never tasted it. Pants down around his ankles, fuck the boots. Steve tumbles onto the bed with him and pushes Bucky up to the headboard.

He’s mouthing at Bucky’s cock through his underwear, looking up at his eyes. It’s almost too much, to watch him and get him off at the same time. Steve’s body keeps jolting, like it’s going to run off in different directions. He rocks his hips against the mattress and leaves Bucky’s underwear in place.

He crawls up Bucky’s body and straddles him. Bucky’s eyes have never looked more bluntly beautiful. Plainly hungry but he does nothing to satisfy himself. As though he understands the complicated tangle of Steve’s wants and knows this isn’t about sex.

It’s about intimacy.

How do you love a man who hides his face? 

First you kiss his ear, then the skin just below it. You run a thumb up under the fabric and trace his jaw. Then you kiss the creases by the corner of his eye. You look down at him and smile. He says nothing and for once he lets you have him as he is, gaps and blemishes and blackness and all. Without explanation.

How do you love a man who wears a mask?

Love him in spite of it, because of it, around it, through it. Question it and defend it. Push and pull. Fall asleep with your face on his neck, up against the fabric so it masks you too.

How do you love a man?

Just melt into, melt until. Love him until he laughs. And when you try to raise your head he’ll pull you back down. He’ll smell your hair and hold you there, in the nook of his chest. 

 

* * *

 

“Maybe we should retire.”

“Are we not,” Steve gestures in the air, “already retired?”

“No, I mean _really_ retire. Maybe we should disappear.”

“Oh,” Steve nods, considering, “What would we do?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky shrugs. He smiles like it doesn’t matter. “You were always talking shit about settling down on a farm, weren’t you?”

Steve nods. He can’t quite bring himself to laugh off that particular forgotten plan from another lifetime.

“Do you want to be back out there?”

“Out where?”

“In the fight.” Bucky raises his chin when he says it.

“No.” For once it comes without hesitation. “I don’t.”

Bucky waits.

“That doesn’t mean that I’ll never need to, though.”

“I know.” Bucky nods, “You know where I’ll be when that happens.”

“No,” Steve starts to smile before he’s delivered the punchline, “I have no idea. You show up all over the place. Are you going to start sniping at people left and right?” Steve raises one hand, “Are you going to tail me around, watching my back?” He holds up his other hand, “Are you going to go charging in next to me?”

“That one,” Bucky stops him, “That last one.”

Steve smiles back and drops his head. It feels strange to joke about, but right somehow, like it ought to be joked about.

“Come to Montana with me.”

Steve looks up.

“Or— wherever,” Bucky shrugs, “Oklahoma? Nebraska? Let’s live on a ranch.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, “Two city boys trying to run a farm. Yeah. Okay.”

Bucky snorts, then laughs. Steve starts to laugh too and shoves Bucky’s arm. 

When their laughter tapers off, Bucky breathes in, “But you know what I’m saying, right?” He holds Steve’s eyes, “It’s just you and me. For as long as we have.”

Catch your breath. Breathe the words back. Steve says, “Yeah,” he nods through the lump in his throat, “For as long as we have.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, and any else you'd like to send my way are always greatly appreciated. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on tumblr! notoska.tumblr.com


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